Oscars 2011: Revving Up My Engine With A Rant--Oscar Films Need A Chance

Evidence that modern motion picture distribution has finally descended into madness:

Say what you will about the current Best Picture nominees floundering at the box office. 

I say, don't blame the films.

First of all, has anyone noticed that most Theater chains in the U.S. are no longer advertising in the major daily newspapers?  There are still many people who rely on their local Entertainment Sections for information about which theaters are playing the movies they most want to see, especially in their neighborhood.

Nowadays, all of this information can be found on-line, or on smart-phone movie apps.  But unless you know which theaters are nearby; or you're already familiar with the films in current release; or which are OSCAR-NOMINATED--  

Unless you know all that at the start, how do you connect with an "Artist"? with a "Descendants"?  even (I shudder) "Extremely Loud..."? or any film that does not have the fan-boy build up of a "Twilight " or "Hunger Games" (which just broke a record for on-line advanced ticket sales..)

OK, OK, so I had to admit that times are a-changing, and thus I got with the program.

There is a 12-screen multiplex one mile from my house.  My new preferred method of info-gathering is on-line, using my trusty laptop computer (that alone sort of renders me as timely as Mr. Malick's dinosaurs...)

I logged on.

I found the AMC site for the local 12-plex.

And I found something maddening:

ON THE WEEKEND LEADING UP TO THE ACADEMY AWARDS, NOT ONE OF THE 12 SCREENS WAS SHOWING ANY FILM THAT CURRENTLY HAS AN OSCAR NOMINATION, IN ANY CATEGORY. NOT ONE.  

That means if I want to see "The Descendants" once more to refresh my memory and check out my original impression, or if I wanted to take a friend to see "The Artist", I might have to travel 30 minutes or more.

And yet, the movies themselves are blamed for not reaching an audience, when it is the studios/exhibitors who have not given the films and their potential target audiences a chance to connect.  The people who would likely make the films a hit are those who would  use the traditional print media that have been taken away from them.

To top it off, the films are pulled out of theaters at the EXACT TIME fans may want to check them out.

Am I wrong to believe that ALL of the Best Picture films deserve a chance to be seen on a big screen, at least for the weekend of and week following the Oscars?

More Oscar stuff this weekend!!

Cars Helping Pets...My Late Father's Auto May Save a Small Life

A death.... Endless, emotional reminders and minutiae....And one proud outcome.

One cannot imagine the all-consuming tasks involved in handling the affairs of one deceased parent, while  desperately coping with the adjustment of the other, mentally challenged parent to a new environment.

Above all that--the unending phone calls, and meetings with banks, lawyers, real estate agents, credit card companies, doctors, nurses, social workers, former employers, and  US government assistance programs-- how do you accept the fact that you have in effect lost both parents? 

How do you slow yourself down enough to reflect, to remember...to mourn?

How do you sort through of 50 years worth of "things', some of it sentimental junk, most of it too big to move, and then explain to your mother why she can't go home?  That she will never go home again?  And, finally, to realize that she doesn't remember it all so well?

At least one completed task will turn out well.

My father had a car.  I could have sold the car, but I sought to dispose of it quickly. 

We found a web site called Cars Helping Pets.



I sent an e-mail. Scheduled the car for towing. Removed the pathetic items that remained from their last ill-fated road trip.  Took off the license plates and readied the deed for transfer. And watched the old Impala disappear down the street where I grew up.

The process was easy.  And, hopefully, the reward will be close to my heart. 

The Cars Helping Pets web site explains:

Your donated vehicle will be sold at the highest possible value and the proceeds from your car donation will be used to bring an end to animal cruelty,  provide medical treatment and caring for countless animals in our local communities, and throughout the nation. Your unwanted vehicle has incredible value, and we can use it to help those who cannot help themselves. Please be a voice by donating your car to Cars Helping Pets today.

Donating my father's car in hopes that it will someday aid unwanted animals has provided one small corner of comfort in what has been a cold and unforgiving process. 

I am now beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.  The blog-world will soon, once again, be privy to the cinematic insights of this older and wiser movie-lover, and well-meaning son.

A Caroler at Your Door! A Christmas Journal #2

Remembering old friends this season...especially the humorous, four-legged ones who put up with our fashion experiments. 

If Maggie were still here, she would gladly have sung (er, howled) your favorite carols, right at your door.

Wishing you music and good cheer today.......

A Personal Holiday Anecdote: Christmas Journal #1

It turned out to be a better day than I had expected. It was a long, long way from the normal, comfortable holiday we have shared at my parents' house since time began.  Even so,  we are adjusting to a new reality, and are breathing a small sigh of relief, at least for today.

During the past week, after a series of incapacitating falls at home, my father was taken to the Emergency Room, and admitted to the hospital for observation and a battery of tests.  He is in the same hospital where my mother is now, and has been for a good part of the year, for treatment of dementia and other psychological maladies.

My mother has been frantic at the sudden end to my father's daily visits to her ward, where geriatric patients are secured behind a locked door for treatment of various emotional and cognitive impairments. 

Since it was impossible for them to visit each other due to my father's serious condition, he is stable enough now, and she has become strong enough, for her to be informed of his whereabouts, and to arrange for a visit between them.

That is how I, my sister, and Mark, spent our Christmas afternoon.  We signed my mother out and then wheeled her to the tower clear across the hospital, to my father's room.  It was a brief visit, with small gifts, fresh-baked banana bread, a little confusion, some slurred speech, and a smile out of each of them. And, of course, a tearful departure as we brought mom back to her floor.

It has been a time for being a little numb.  Our immediate thought today was to make sure their special visit could be arranged, and to finally allow my mother to know the truth of my father's health.  Her obsessive fear of him being ill or dying has contributed to her anxiety. Now, she can begin to deal with this fear in an honest way. 

All of the other things: their eventual discharge and placement in nursing homes, and the maintenance and/or sale of their current home, will wait another day.

To all of you, especially those who are hurting this Christmas, there are those of us who understand, and wish you peace and support in 2012.

The Child Is Father to the Man (and Woman)--A Personal Journal

My muse has been wrestling with reality lately. So far, reality has an edge in this week's match.


I have never had children.  But I am unique among my friends, in that both of my parents are still alive.  At 77 and 83 respectively, my mother and father have shown alarming symptoms of age-related decline over the past year.


I have had to reinvent myself as a caretaker of two often difficult people with difficult challenges and ailments.  There are no road-maps for people like me, known as The Sandwich Generation. *

(Although, without children, I am more of an open-faced sandwich.) 

I try my best to provide basic needs, safety and comfort to a mother whose world has finally diminished to a small space of fear and forgetfulness, of self-neglect and mindless distraction to others; and to a father who has used silence and rage in equal measure to maintain his view of life and our place in it, who has stubbornly refused offers of help or requests to discuss future plans.


In brief, there was the car accident last Spring; the trauma; my fragile mother's breakdown; my father's annoyance and denial; an initial hospitalization; treatment by electricity; frantic uncertainty; more denial, and a relapse. 


There is my father's lack of mobility due to recent falls, his rapid weight loss, and his refusal to have his injuries examined.  Cognitive decline is evident, possibly due to lack of sleep.  That is due in large part to his insistence on caring for my mom at home....


My mother is in the early stages of dementia, and chronic (maybe lifelong) depression.  After returning home last June, she had not slept a whole night, and continued to keep my father awake.  She was filled with anxiety and confusion, asked the same questions over and over, and responded with belligerence to attempts to care for her.  It had been violently chaotic. It was recommended that a hospital stay would be best.  I agreed.


In this, her second hospitalization of the year, her medical professionals have deemed her unfit to ever return home, and so tomorrow, we must look at the situation and begin to make some hard decisions.


American medicine, and our culture at large, seem unsympathetic to the helplessness and pain of old age. 


In this journal I have chosen not to dwell on these things.  I never felt that this journal's purpose was as a confessional, or as a way to elicit sympathy. I feel that unless one knows the characters involved, it is difficult to make this relevant and to foster understanding with only one or two brief entries.  There are privacy concerns as well. 


Writing this now, as a way to refocus my efforts and clear my mind for appreciation of higher culture and  the kind of writing I want to do, I realize that there is so much more to all of this. The story of my parents, as viewed through the eyes of a son who always felt responsible for making them happy, and who followed his own path with a mixture of regret and pride, is so complex, and so deep, that this could make for a novel. 


You might think you have read this story before.  But if I ever decide to pursue this and shape it artistically, and do it justice, it could be a stunner, the novel I was meant to write.  But it might be so painful, I might not recover.


At such an intense time in the life of this narrator, I felt it was helpful to share some of the events that have consumed my time and mental energy, to put them in perspective.  I intend to return to film and art and animals and politics as the rightful topics of this journal.


Perhaps, instead of avoiding this topic altogether, I might visit it with more frequency.  It would be a release for me, a therapy.  If I can write compellingly, so that others will read with keen interest, then I will grow as a writer. If I share what I am learning from the experience, it might do someone else some good.


I conclude with a brief anecdote:


My parents have never been demonstrative with their affections.  More often, as a child, I witnessed hair-raising conflict, and always felt at fault.  It was rare to see them embrace, or to hear them speak endearingly.  Last night, as I started to wheel my father from the hospital at the close of visiting hours with my mother, I saw them reach toward each other tentatively, as if to shake hands. My mother mouthed the words, "I love you".  My father replied "I love you too". 


Had they been able to do that at home, instead of maintain the horror show that was their dysfunction, I would bet that things would have turned out so much differently. 


Thank you for listening..  I will return from time to time to relate any progress that we have made.

(* If you are a parental caretaker, check out this web site designed to provide help and information, researched and written by Carol Abaya, M.A.)

A Puppy And An Ice Cube..What The World Needs Now--Wednesday Journal #1

When I saw this video I knew I had to post it! First, to save it for posterity; and second, to share it with anyone who visits here.  (Thank you, Kirk and Mark.)


Tonight, a few brief posts.  Journal #2 below is a small tribute to the late Laura Nyro, a new inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame.  Journal #3 is a gut reaction to today's sentencing of former Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich on multiple corruption charges.


Coming up this week: another long-overdue, posthumous recognition of a Chicago Sports legend; and my thoughts on a movie-review embargo that has the blogosphere abuzz.


But first: enjoy this video of a Welsh Corgi puppy and his encounter with a single ice cube!

Mini-Review: Lasse Hallstrom's "Hachi"...Stark, True Story of a Dog

Prologue:

Last week, I took a short break from the Internet, from e-mail (except at work), and the blog.  I needed to reconnect with the feeling of relaxation that "unplugging" often provides.  To "unplug" means there is no need to be "on" all the time, to think of new topics, to work and re-work a post (and writing, of any kind, of the serious kind, is hard work.) 

But there is a danger of becoming addicted to the calmness, like as to Vicodin, and the longer I stay away, the more ways I can "justify" not writing for just one more night....

I caught up on sleep.  My dislocated shoulder is healing.  I am fighting the beast of oncoming winter depression, especially now that family challenges and obligations are weighing more now, like the chill in the winter air.  In spite of this being  a personal Journal, I have chosen not to be open about some matters.  Maybe I can deal with them in my fiction.  Hang in there with me....

I have immersed myself in the movies, logging in a couple of mainstream titles as well as some obscure "festival fodder" which have increased my enthusiasm for moviegoing once again, whetted my appetite for it.

Soon I'll find the energy to roll out a whole new "volume" of film reviews, especially now that at least a dozen new releases show some artistic promise, and have me excited.

I was pushing myself to complete  reviews of two new movies I enjoyed, when this weekend I happened to surf on to a cable movie station....

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I had heard of "Hachi: A Dog's Tale" years ago, and remember being somewhat excited about its release.  Unfortunately it never saw a theatrical release here, and I lost track of it. 

The film, directed by the fine Lasse Hallstrom, is based on a true story from Japan in the early 1900's, and a 1987 Japanese film based on this story, about an Akita dog that was so devoted to its caregiver that it waited at the train station every afternoon at 5:00 for his return.  Hachi even showed up at the station, living on the kind handouts of the townspeople, for ten years after the man died. The story was updated and transported to modern-day New England for this version, but the mystical Far East connection remains.

This is a stark and simple film that is unlike most American movies about dogs and their masters, (other than it made me cry buckets).  It is a haunting tale of loyalty and loss that is profoundly, mysteriously moving precisely because there are no heartwarming resolutions or explanations.  Just as the dog could not quite comprehend the sudden and prolonged disappearance of his deceased master, so the film is scaled to the dog's uncomprehending perspective, and we long to provide impossible comfort to this incredibly loving creature.

I admired Hallstrom's underrated artistry with the camera, his shots from Hachi's point-of-view lightly desaturated, the angles subtle and blending seamlessly with the objective narrative.  The film moves quickly, which is fine, because it would be unbearably sad otherwise.

This is a work of poetry committed to film, in spite of the appearance of American actors not often associated with poetry.  And yet, Richard Gere (a co-producer) is perfect as a gentle family man, a Rhode Island musician and High School teacher, who loses his heart to a puppy found wandering the town's train station after its crate falls from a luggage cart.  Jason Alexander tones down the squinty mannerisms to portray a sympathetic station attendant. Joan Allen overcomes a hastily-written role as Gere's wife who objects to the puppy, at first.  Soon her heart is lost too.

It is in the final thirty minutes that the film works its haunting magic, almost without dialogue, and with the accompaniment of Jan A. J. Kaczmarek's lovely piano score. 

I object to Sony's decision to release the film straight to DVD in 2009 after a number of Film Festival dates.  But I understand it too. This movie would not appeal to hyperactive American audiences who prefer their dog-stories to have lots of slapstick and a happy ending. 

Those who have ever been loved by a dog will immediately warm to this movie.  One wants to believe each of us is worthy of the kind of unending devotion shown by Hachi in this film. 

Emergency! (An Embarrassing Anecdote)--Friday Journal

A little break from movies, Oscars, politics, even dogs.....To share a mildly embarrassing anecdote.  I'm writing this for a laugh or two, and as a perverse memento of the day.

I spend the entire morning at the Emergency room, with a dislocated shoulder.

I was feeling good, looking forward to a busy and productive day.  I even wore my best shirt and tie. As I left the house, I noticed that my car, which I keep parked on the driveway, was covered in ice, and my Drivers-Side door was frozen shut. 

(Having to scrape ice off my car before Halloween is discouraging--no, it's unacceptable.  I must send nasty e-mails to our local meteorologists.  Or,  stock up for a nasty winter to come...) 

I was able to pry open the passenger side, in order to crawl in and try to push the driver's door open from the inside.

As I pushed hard against the stuck door, it opened suddenly, like in a Three Stooges routine, and I slipped, landed on my left hand and felt (and heard) my shoulder pop.

Mark was still home....and I was in some real pain.

We summoned the paramedics, who were great... One of them was giving me injections and nasal pain-killer, and I joked that he was enjoying it too much...to which he gave me an amused grin.....

While I was in X-ray, nauseous from pain-killers and feeling like I might die, the technicians rolled me somehow, and my shoulder snapped back into place....

The sedative (dilaudid, an opiate drug of the morphine class) made me pretty ill....

Mark, who was patient and stayed with me the whole time, got me home, and I slept all afternoon, fighting an upset stomach.

Finally, I ate a light supper, and am faring pretty well.  Guess I'll have to be productive, and busy, on Monday.

I am supposed to wear a sling, and so I should not even be writing this.

B_t,   I   c_n_o_   k_y_o_r_   w_i_h    j_s_   1    h_n_!

Interlude 1: A Mt. Prospect Photo Journal

One late afternoon last week, I looked out the front window to the school fields right across the street.  Hundreds of geese were resting, or lining up along the curb to drink the rainwater that was still falling gently through blazing sunlight.


I walked out of the house into the warm rain and sunshine, and saw everything drenched in a gold light. I took a few pictures before the sun quickly set over the fields.

Looking over the rooftops along the back of the house, I caught a perfect rainbow...

Even though the end of the rainbow seems to be on our roof, I'm still looking for the pot of gold....

Interlude 2: A Chicago Photo Journal

It was a day of rare beauty the Saturday I attended my first screenings at the Chicago Film Festival, October 8.  The films I wanted to see were hours apart, which provided enough time to walk, and enjoy the city around me...Navy Pier, Illinois Avenue, and the River East Art Center.

I had my camera.

The entrance to Navy Pier.  Hundreds of tourists, and natives enjoying an unseasonably warm October day. Maybe even a few movie lovers, in between Festival Screenings!

Mark and I had seafood on the pier.  Here, we met a young couple from Philadelphia; she was preparing to run in the Chicago Marathon the next day.

Lake Point Tower's surfaces have fun with the light!

The Wrigley Building appears to be "etched" into the side of Trump Tower behind it.

The River East Art Center's exterior, an old loft building, reveals nothing of the symmetrical beauty inside...

Abyss--A Sunday Journal

(I wonder if Ingmar Bergman wrote despairing journal articles before creating one of his metaphysical masterpieces... Not that there's a masterpiece waiting in any of the following...)

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Imagine that someone said to you, "Come on, engage in this activity.  It's colorful, full of a variety of things to do.  You can do just about anything you want, unless others (who are more privileged/more weaponed/more unfeeling/more unscrupled) hold you back.  Part of the "fun" is overcoming all of that.  You'll know pleasure sometimes, and will laugh, and see a lot of things, both sublime and horrible.  You might even know love at some point...   You will also experience a lot of pain.  A lot of it.  You will feel pain no matter what you do to avoid it.   And sickness: that is a given.  Your friends and loved ones will also suffer, and you will be helpless to alleviate it. And the longer you engage in this activity, the more you will find that the playing field we call "the world" is even worse than you could have imagined.  And you will wonder if your attempts to make something beautiful are merely an obscenity in such a place that thrives on ugliness.   But hey, amid all of this sadness and hurt there's a lot of fun and good feeling to be found!  The only catch, the one thing you're really certain of, is that at some unspecified time during this activity, no matter how long you engage in it, you will die."

That's life.

If I knew what was required, if I were given a choice before being delivered to the playing field, I would have said, "No thanks."  Of course, none of us is given a choice.

Animal Rescue Images--A Personal Wednesday Journal

This was another one of those "I need a sad movie to help me cry" days....


Images of family members, as I remember them...words like "depression" and "psychosis" and "dementia" and "heart tumor"....  and an uncertain future, no matter how we dream, or make plans....


As always, I found some solace in the company of animals...or, at least, in the images of animals and the kind people who devote themselves to raising them, loving them, rescuing them, and keeping them from harm.


I have been humbled to volunteer with homeless dogs, and am resolved to step up my efforts to care for these creatures, and try to help make their lives bearable. 

In the meantime, I found a little video that reaffirmed my belief that the animals in our midst, and the people who love them, make it worthwhile to get up another morning if I must. (Along with a special few who I am lucky to number among my friends)

If you are not crazy about the music in the background (no disrespect to Sarah McLachlan), do what I did, and enjoy the images with the volume turned down.  Of course, if you need an emotional release, keep the music on.


More animal inspiration later this week...with a smile, as I look at a little town called Dwight, Illinois, and their annual Basset Hound Waddle.


Tomorrow....getting musically inspired, with another visit to my favorite musician, Joni Mitchell....

Taking the Weekend Off....To Catch Up With All Of You

To complete my personal, low-key celebration of 2 years and 500 posts (still cannot believe that!!) I am taking tonight and tomorrow off from the Journal...no new posts....

Instead, I plan to catch up with all of you, comment on some of your recent and incredible writing, and respond to your kind comments from the last week or so.

So now, you have more time to enjoy reading from the list of Movie Reviews found in yesterday's installment! (see below).

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Sunday, I may be back with a short series of small personal thoughts on the meaning of the passage of ten years...September 11....

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Next week:

--A sudden idea I had regarding Mr. Obama's Jobs Speech last night;

--Some ideas I have for features as a way to structure my blog (Mini-reviews; Guilty Pleasures; In the News);

--a WELCOME to some new followers.

*       *       *       *       *

By the way: to Andrew, Luke, Cheryl, Jose, Stan, Eric (all of whom I never mentioned in my last two milestone posts), as well as Tom, Ben, and Walter.... Thanks again for being there, and always renewing your subscriptions! 

And to Mark... Who inspired a lot of my writing, and left me to it, even as I kept the lights on half the night....Thank You!!

And to the others who visit here regularly...You know who you are....and I appreciate you.

Arrivederci, Italia: Some Parting Thoughts--A Sunday Journal

I have enjoyed re-creating our visit to Italy, on these pages, through journal entries and original photographs, and having readers come along on this special journey.


Coming to the end of this series has left me content, but wistfully heavy-hearted; I don't want to say goodbye again.  I could not hold back tears as we prepared to board the van for the airport in Florence.


The visit was capped by our consummate experience in cooking (see post below); but even that precious idyll was but a small part of what we had just been through. 

Although the big-picture perspective of Italy lingered, that picture alternated in my thoughts with the small things we encountered at every step.  Like one of the vast and intricate mosaics in St. Peter's Basilica, it offered an overwhelming impression of beauty, which compelled me to look closer and marvel at the small moments and anecdotes that produced it.


Sort of like a glorious spray of wild caper plants growing from an ancient stone wall which, upon closer inspection, reveals the most beautiful little caper blossoms, not visible from far away...

I don't know yet all of the ways the trip has transformed me.  But I do know that the experience has changed me, even in small ways.

Transformed? Yes indeed, in various subtle ways.

First of all, I have seen a whole new style of serving and eating food. Wine, too, will make more frequent appearances at our table.

Being surrounded by wonderful pieces of art and artifacts has soothed me, at least for a while, and helped me re-gain much-needed perspective on the annoyances and outrages of everyday life.  Alas, these have not gone away...but instead, in a sense, I have.

I have always believed in the power of language; so communicating in unfamiliar tongues has confirmed that belief.


In one respect, the transformation may not be to my benefit....While Italians have their share of social and economic problems, their ways of life, perfected over centuries, still seem more full, more meaningful, than what America purports to offer. And so, my discontent is becoming greater here.


Mostly I am ever more impatient with American ignorance of world issues, the American obsession with trivial things, with technology for its own sake, for a certain sterility of imagination that pop-culture pundits and taste-makers insist is the wave of the future.  We willfully forget the traditions that make pop culture simply a necessary diversion, not the basis for our economy or our existence.

I have always had an appreciation of the way my grandparents thought and lived. Being in their native land, I felt their presence in the very air around me.

Best of all, I am a different person by virtue of the many people we met. I asked almost everyone where they were from. I had some nice conversations that way.  We met folks from South Africa to Portugal, London to Spain, Holland to Maryland, and many others.


In particular, I will never forget a family from Oslo, Norway we met on a boat cruising between the coastal towns of the Cinque Terre.  The two parents and young daughter occupied the bench in front of us, and their son, 18-year-old "O.J.", or so he was known by his friends, sat beside us.  He spoke English very well and seemed to enjoy the company of us Americans, telling us about his role as a youth-leader and mountain-climber, and his proud love for American horror movies.

My encounter with this family occurred just a couple of days after the tragic massacre in Oslo that took the lives of dozens of young people. I was glad OJ and his family were away from Norway during that chaos, and were not among the unfortunate victims.

After all of the Italian phrases that I used (and misused) for over a week, perhaps my most treasured language acquisition was the 4-word phrase O.J. taught me in Norwegian:

Hyggelig å møte deg.

I'm happy to meet you.

From time to time I may return to these pages to write about a memorable incident or fleeting image from Italy .  For now, I plan to re-read the journal entries below regularly, until we have the opportunity to visit Italy once more. 

First Photograph...Late Bloomer, A Saturday Photo-Journal

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This is the first photograph I took with my brand new camera...

There's a reason why I wanted my inaugural picture to be of this pot of African Violets. 

This plant has been on our living room end table, next to the picture window, for two years.  In all of that time, no flowers ever bloomed.  We watered its light-green leaves faithfully, and kept it in a spot with lots of light and a comfortable temperature.  And then, several weeks ago, we noticed buds.

Soon, the plant was covered with luminous light-purple-and-white flowers with tiny yellow centers.  They continue to bud and bloom still.

If you click on it to enlarge it, the delicate detail of the purple blossoms is more beautifully pronounced. I took care to compose the image, without moving the plant from its usual location, so that nothing around it would distract from it.

It was cause for some small celebration to see this pot in full bloom after a long nurturing.  I  hope that my budding re-discovery of love for taking photographs, which has been long-dormant, will soon blossom, and make people want to look and respond to whatever beauty unfolds.

From one late bloomer to another....

July May Be A Significant Month...A Monday Journal

Tom: July 6, 19--

                           Mark: July 6, 19-- (same as above)

Two things promise to make July a significant month, if not a turning point, in the reinvention of this writer.

1) I just received a new camera from Mark to commemorate the birthday.  It is beyond belief that, for the last couple of decades I have not had a camera of my own.  Once upon a time, you could not see me without my Super-8 movie camera.  When that became obsolete, I just never acquired another camera of any kind. I have taken photos with a camera Mark and I have shared.   For a guy like me who often thinks in pictures, this could mean the beginning of a new direction, one that I never followed and perhaps should have.  This camera is HD and allows for up to 1,000 stills and 4 hours of motion pictures on one memory card.

(I can feel the spirits of Bergman and Fellini, Fosse and Malick, seeping into my consciousness....)

2. I am finally traveling to Italy.  At the end of the month we are joining a very small tour group (about 8 people) to immerse ourselves in Roman history and Florentine art, and bask in the countryside and culinary splendors in between.

More...much more...as the day approaches. 

Coming Up: A weekend at a unique inn, named for the first female resident of Evanston, Illinois

Reviews of "Super-8" and "Beginners"!

Mother

Lately all I feel like doing is sleeping...
Quiet nights together at home, writing, our trips to the city, and some movies, have sustained me these past two weeks.
The following poured out of me....maybe now I can begin to heal myself during this time of uncertainty...
Many thanks to my readers...
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She barely resembles the woman I knew, strapped to that wheelchair for two weeks...

"I hate you" she said. "You want me to stay here for the rest of my life", she said...
That's the illness talking. 
Depression ate away at her essence. It has been feeding on her, maybe all of her life.
It's hard to look back and say, "Yes, I can see that now".

The shell remains; drawn, disheveled.
Hair and skin dried up from a refusal to drink liquids.
But the person she was, longing for affection and approval, who loved us as best she could, is hidden, or gone.
The reminder is there. And maybe her love remains.  
I come to see her with hope. I remind myself that she needs me, in spite of her irrational anger.


What was she so afraid of?  She has always been so frightened.
She never drove a car. So what?  A charming old-world Italian custom: Women stayed home. Women were dependent.
It was something more...She was scared to death of getting lost, of losing control.


And now she can't move from that chair. 
She is angry now, and she wants to be left alone.
I tell myself she doesn't mean it.
That awful voice inside me asks, "If it wasn't there to begin with, would she say it now?".
"There's a conspiracy against me."  "You're a bastard."
I can't listen. I won't take it to heart.


After weeks of alarming decline, she fell one night, and stayed there for hours.
Until father called the next morning.
The weary doctor had a lot of things to do. 
"Bring her in if you can.  You can't force her if she doesn't want to."
The paramedics and I decided for her.  She had stopped eating. For weeks.
She didn't know what day it was.

Another doctor assured us that the treatment was much less traumatic nowadays.
"Six sessions, and we will see a difference. She won't feel it."
The movies alarmed my imagination...Jack Nicholson's cuckoo's nest... Ellen Burstyn's requiem....  Horrendous images....

A flicker of hope...a cup of juice consumed...a few hours of laughter had returned...
...But then it all wore off...she was not responding...her anger and unhappiness returned.  "Why are you here?" 
If I leave her, she is afraid that the "lights will go out", and she will be alone.
For the first time yesterday, she uttered, "I just want to die."
She won't eat.  Or drink. Or take medication unless forced to.


"You're a bastard".  "I hate you".  It's the illness talking. 

She is like a frightened animal...a dog that bites. 
If I reach out, real pain would result.


After she returned, years ago, from a similar episode, I watched her wave at me from my rear view mirror as I drove away to start a life in Phoenix....and I cried the whole day, all the way to St. Louis, and beyond. 
I cried for being angry with her, because she would not get better for my sake.


She recovered, years later, and we never discussed it when I returned to Chicago.


I'm tired now, and feel no guilt, only profound sadness, and uncertainty.  She has three more treatments....and then...what?

I cannot expect anything from her.  I will give everything I can. 


Mother, for now, is gone.  She may never fully return.  I have to let go. 

Save what I can...Reinvent the rest....

"Hasta la vista, Baby!"--Wednesday Journal

I don't mean to be glib.  It would be too easy to make a lame joke about just how long it took him to return at night when he said, "I'll Be Back". 

The breaking story of Arnold Schwarzenegger fathering a child with a household employee, ten years ago while married to Maria Shriver, is embarrassing, painful, and any more, almost blase.. 

The innocent members of his family, close associates, and public supporters of Schwarzenegger, are feeling the pangs of betrayal.

Most families caught in similar circumstances can adjust, heal, and carry on, outside the spotlight of media scrutiny.

But there's little sympathy left in me for privileged people like Arnold, ostensible role-models, leaders who make decisions that affect the private lives of millions, who are exposed as hypocrites.  I might be more forgiving if they didn't condemn such behavior in others, holding themselves as the standard-bearers of "moral" living.  I hate it most when revered pop-culture icons and politicians behave this way.

Arnold happened to be both. 

Are they all that way?  Am I that naive?  I will give myself some benefit of the doubt...

Arnold, in the balance, caused much pain to his family.  In the grand scheme, I find his behavior only a little less reprehensible than transgressors like Mel Gibson or Newt Gingrich, people who either build their careers on self-righteous ideology or who spew their venomous hate in public.  Arnold made some grave errors, and he has lost the public trust (for a while) and he has a hard road to repair. 

But as voters, we sort of have to blame ourselves for the leaders we elect.  Why can't Americans stop voting for B-movie actors, career politicians, and unctuous glad-handers to represent them as their statesmen?  When will we demand better from the leaders who represent us? 

It will be interesting to follow Schwarzenegger's reentry into a movie career.  As far as I'm concerned, he's "Terminated".

A Close Call Last Friday--A Sunday Journal

A number of personal incidents this past week have caused me to reflect with some urgency on the challenges of just getting through the day.  For now, I want to record my thoughts and feelings about just one of the incidents, if for no other reason than to give myself some comfort, and to exercise the narrative writing muscle....


Before long, (maybe even later tonight), I will return to what I know and enjoy best: views on visual and literary arts; recommendations (or condemnations) of the most recent films and plays; looks back on older works; political rants; and stories about our animal friends.


~     ~     ~     ~     ~



A truck driver with 50 previous traffic violations and citations crashed his truck into a Metra commuter train last Friday morning.


The accident occurred just minutes after leaving the station in Mount Prospect, our home town suburb, where Mark catches the train to work every morning, and where I often board the train to the city.


Fortunately for Mark, he just missed being on the crashed train, having boarded the one previous to it.


(For movie fans, the Metra is the train system involved in the recent film "Source Code". )


Accidents and close calls happen frequently. Often, what happened Friday was the result of stupidity and bravado, when drivers speed across the tracks after the gates are down the alarms are sounding, and all precautionary signs are flashing.  Too often, they win this game of "chicken".  Unfortunately, the perpetrator of Friday's mayhem was unable to outrun his fate. He was killed on impact.

Trouble is, a lot of innocent people were injured, and many more were inconvenienced. The conductor was seriously injured.  The second car burst into flames, and the violent pitch of the train sent bags, work papers, books, and other personal items slamming against the walls of the train.  Many passengers had to kick out the windows for emergency escape.  No passengers died.


Trains were unable to run back on that line during the afternoon rush hour. Hundreds of people were left stranded in the city.  Fortunately for Mark, he was able to take an alternate line to Evanston (home of Northwestern University) and I was able to drive there to meet him and bring him back home.


Had Mark been on that train, and if something unspeakably serious occurred, I just don't know how I would react, and bear up under that. 

Illinois has had a long shameful history of putting dangerous drivers back out on the streets.  Former Governor George Ryan is in prison for a license scandal that resulted in the deaths of a vacationing family with a van filled with children.


It is sort of natural to try to avoid the constant fact of how fragile life is, how quickly it can change forever.  I suppose I have to give up the naive notion---I used to call it trust, and hope--that when you kiss a loved one goodbye before work, you can count on seeing that person again at the end of the day. 


On the other hand, it's best not to dwell...  Just give it its due....   Nothing in life is safe...But then not every activity will result in tragedy.