Words Made Flesh

The link in the title above is an interview at Salon.com - but more about that in a minute.

About a year ago, my agent asked me to put together a bio of myself that he could include with my written materials whenever he sent it around to any prospective producers, executives, etc. Realizing that this bio was yet another opportunity to show off my acrobatic skills with the English language, I really relished the opportunity to have a little fun at my own expense, with phrases like:

"Realizing that slavery was still technically illegal in the United States, He left the technology industry and moved to Los Angeles to pursue his life-long dream of filmmaking."

After all, this was being distributed to illustrate that I am, in fact, an artist. Attitude plus information was the name of the game.

The last line in my bio reads:

"He considers himself a Christian, so he’s learning not to look down on religious fundamentalists."

The two books I have the earliest memories of as a child are a picture book about the life of Abraham Lincoln, and a Children's Bible. It had all the Cecil B. DeMille-ready sections of the Old Testament, plus the Nativity, the Sermon on the Mount, & the Last Supper. I always wondered why my huge, white Children's Bible, with the big letters and colorful pictures, had so many fewer chapters than the regular Bible Mom & Dad had. It was missing the gory details of the Crucifixtion, the Acts of the Apostles, all of Paul's letters, and the Book of Revelations.

I recall, several years ago, Louis Farrakhan made a highly publicized stop-over here in the City of Angels, giving a sermon in, of all places, the Staples Center. I caught a small portion of what he had to say on TV, and this part always stuck with me.

Farrakhan spoke of both the kinship and the distinctions between the various religions sired by Abraham. As the literal meaning of the term "Islam" implies, Muslims such as himself are called to submit to the will of God. Jews, on the other hand, are the chosen people of God, and, as such, have both specific rights and priviledges as God's favorites. However, in Farrakhan's mind, Christians have, in many ways, the most difficult calling, because their faith calls them to strive to actually be LIKE Christ, who was, according to our faith, God incarnate as a man.

I spent virtually all of my formative years as an active participant in our local church, to which, I will give all the credit to my mother. Mom sang on the choir, she taught Sunday School, she served on the various administrative boards, etc. So, it should surprise no one that I sang on the Children's choir, regularly attended ALL Sunday School functions, served as both a junior usher and an acolyte (the Protestant equivalent of an altar boy, for my Catholic friends out there).

At his funeral this past Christmas, I learned that my mother's father commuted the 2 hour drive every Sunday from Baltimore City to his traditional family church on the other side of the Chesapeake Bay in rural Dorchester County to attend morning service, and personally took it upon himself to raise the money necessary to keep the church open long after it's membership had shrunk below the size that could actually support it. "They can't close it as long as I'm alive", he was heard to say.

The church runs very deep in my family.

And, as a child, I devoured all of these concepts of personal ethics. I took the Golden Rule so deeply to heart, once, at summer camp, I insisted that another kid punch me in the stomach to make amends after I'd accidentally winged him in the temple with the zipper of my jacket.

I have an ex who is an ordained AME minister. She once called me "a good little Methodist" - something President Bush & I have in common, at least, in terms of denominational affiliations. She elaborated that, in her mind, Methodists are distinctive from other Christians from their devotion to their concept of grace. And she defined grace in this way: If mercy is giving someone something that they don't deserve, then grace is NOT giving someone EXACTLY what they deserve.

But, ever since I left home to go to college, I've never really had a regular church that I could call my own.

Part of that is laziness. I mean, do I REALLY need to get up at 9AM to put on a three piece suit on a Sunday morning to ensure my eternal salvation? Is God, the Creator of All Things, the Alpha and the Omega, REALLY as petty as my 6th grade homeroom teacher?

But the other part of it is recognition. Having spent a lifetime in the church, I know all the tricks and cliches. I can recite the Nicean Creed, The Lord's Prayer, the 23rd Psalm, all by heart. Most of the metaphors and figures of speech most pastors use in their sermons are so rote, so repetitious, so mechanical, so stinking artificial, I can smell them a mile away before they even read it off of their prepared texts.

Back when I was dating my clergy ex-girlfriend, we went to alot of churches here in L.A., and, I've got to say, there are alot of guys in alot of pulpits around here (and in all the other towns I've lived in) who are tremendous entertainers.

But having a great singing voice and being able to tell a handful of Jesus-centric jokes is NOT the same thing as speaking The Word.

One of my favorite Bible verses is Verse 1, Chapter 1 in the Gospel According to John:

"In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word WAS God."

We all know The Word when we hear it. Sometimes, it's coming through the voice in the pulpit, like my good friend down in Annapolis. Sometimes, it's on a silver screen, in the most unlikely of films. Or a song. Or a book. Or the mutterings of a homeless man on the Santa Monica pier. Or something whispered in an ear by a loved one.

The point is, once I heard The Word, and experienced it, I had absolutely no interest in wasting fours of my Sunday morning sweating in a three piece suit listening to some dude PRETENDING to speak it.

I once told my Mom that there are three kinds of clergy:

1. those who are actually "called"
2. those who want to be rock stars
3. and those are desperately trying to fix the colossal messes in their lives by getting as close to God as possible

And, while I find that the first tend to be very few and far between, ultimately, they're not the point.

The clergy aren't the point. And neither is the church.

I once floated the idea among people on my old e-mail list about selling all those old church cathedrals and just having prayer/Bible study in our living rooms, and people literally looked at me like I'd grown an extra head.

(or, dare I say, a third eye?)

I honestly stopped looking for a church home because, in the end, I decided I didn't need it. Yes, it's great to have a common place & companions for worship, but, ultimately, I thought the whole point of the Protestant reformation was that you didn't need another person in order to commune with the divine.

If sin is a state of separation from God, and God is in all things, including ourselves, then isn't the notion of an intermediary between yourself and God the very definition of sin?

I've been reading "No God But God: the Origins, Evolution, and Future of Islam" by Reza Aslan, and he makes the point about how, so often, in many different religions, including both Islam AND Christianity, the churches and institutions that are created by the followers of prophets are very often the antithesis of everything that the prophets themselves actually represented.

In many cases, I think we imprison ourselves in the forms and rituals and institutions we've constructed around The Word, so much so that we begin to think that the church IS The Word.

But it's not.

The Word is spoken every single day. But it's not shouted from a rooftop or screamed through a megaphone.

The voice that speaks The Word is small.

And still.

And sometimes, that's all I need to be to hear it.

Which brings me to this article in Salon, from a former nun who's now written a book that looks at the so-called "Axial Age" - a period in history when the foundations over virtually ALL the world's religions were founded. And, oddly enough, all these different religious traditions, from Aristotle to Confucius to Buddha to Zoroaster and his philosophical decendents, Jesus and Mohammed, all seem to be saying the same thing.

The Word can be written in many different alphabets & syllables. But the sound is still the same.

Check out her article - it's long, but WELL worth the read.

I, for one, have added her book to my Amazon wish list.

April Showers

I distinctly recall, as a child, crying in the fellowship hall of my church during some event. Honestly, I don't even remember what I was crying about or how old I was.

But the thing I remember the most was that my father eventually saw me and said "you'd better cut that mess out".

Dad's an old school man.

I don't think I ever remember seeing my father cry. In fact, the only instance where I can recall even HEARING about Dad shedding a tear was for his 60th birthday. My mother decided to treat him to a trip to New York City, where they'd spend some time with me, before reaching Dad's final destination in Atlantic City. He had no idea that, after they'd gotten home from Atlantic City, there would be a surprise party waiting for him.

That trip was the first and only time my father ever stayed in my apartment in New Jersey, and, since he's a bit of a neat freak, I'd been cleaning for the better part of a week. Even bought new linen. Of course, the first thing he did when he arrived was check the bed sheets. From the corner of my eye, I caught him nodding his approval of the bed to my mother. Mission accomplished.

I took them to the Christmas Spectacular at Rockefeller Center before treating them to dinner at the Motown Cafe.

That night, one day removed from gambling to his heart's content and two days before being unexpectedly surrounded by all of the people he loves, Dad turned to me and said "this is the best birthday I've ever had."

Two days later, he quietly, bashfully, wept tears of joy.

And my older brother wasting no time in making fun of him for crying like a baby.

Two years later, Dad got to return the favor when the family threw a surprise party for my brother's 40th birthday.

The men in my family tend not to be all that in touch with their feelings.

I suppose I'm one of the exceptions.

I cried at the end of Star Trek II when Spock died. I was nine. I mean, I cried from the movie theater, all the way home, and all through dinner, until Dad pulled me aside, sat me down on the couch, put an arm around me, and said "I'm sure Mr. Spock will be alright."

Crying over sad things is easy. However, having gone to an all-boy's private school, you quickly learn to set aside that instinct. I became really good at sitting on my feelings. Or being angry & vindictive.

I suppose that school was it's own sort of boot camp.

The Army was Dad's dream.

He told me that over lunch in a mall food court a few years ago. Growing up as the middle child in a tiny rural town on Maryland's Eastern Shore, I'm sure the Army represented a lot of things - the chance to see the world, be a hero, serve your country, get the Hell out of your mother's house, etc.

He said that all he ever wanted to do was retire after 20 years of dedicated service to Uncle Sam.

Those kinds of things are easy to say when you're 17 and fresh out of high school.

But when you're 25 and married with a small child, priorities change. Especially if your young wife desperately misses her family and hates traveling.

Dad was honorably discharged after 7 years, but not before my older brother was born & raised on various Army bases for the first three years of his life.

Many of you regular Macroscope readers, I'm sure, are well aware of how vastly different my big brother & I are politically.

By trade & training, I'm an engineer.

He's a lawyer.

In my heart of hearts, I'm a storyteller.

He's a soldier.

Mom tells me that, as a toddler, my brother would look out the window at the soldiers marching past in formation and say "there goes Daddy".

The military is deep in my family marrow. Again, I'm the exception. The closest I came to wearing a uniform was being a Boy Scout.

But my brother is another story.

On my side of our room was a poster of Spider-Man.
On his side of the room was this:

One of his most prized possessions was a Time/Life collection of World War II indexed history cards. He moved well beyond board games like Battleship and Stratego, graduating to hardcore war strategy games with names like "Tactics II" that didn't even bother with toy soldier game pieces anymore.

The army is a part of who he is. The day I graduated from high school, my brother showed up at the ceremony in combat fatigues because he'd just finished with his reserve duty that day. Most of the family portraits I have show him in uniform.

My brother's dream was to be a fighter pilot. But he was weeded out of Air Force ROTC through some, frankly, racist maneuvering. Similar circumstances kept him out of combat helicopter school. Nonetheless, he stuck with it, eventually earning the rank of Captain, working primarily in convoys, transportation, etc.

Not what he wanted. But he still loved it.

His unit got to March in Bush's inaugural parade, and, in his worlds, he even got to see the new Commander-in-Chief.

I could hear how excited he was, even though I was thoroughly convinced that his adoration was, shall we say, misguided, at best.

I remember talking with him in the summer of 2002, just after he'd done his reserve tour for the year in Germany. They were already doing war games & training for an anticipated war in Iraq. I asked him "so what do you think?"

He just shook his head in resignation and said "We're gonna need a lot of guys."

As fate would have it, for some reason, he was unable to get the promotion he wanted to Major and was, therefore, honorably discharged in February 2003 - one month before the President ordered the invasion of Iraq.

And we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Most of us, that is.

Because, even though my brother was now out of harm's way, he was also no longer a soldier. He'd been discharged after 16 years in the Army reserves - four years short of retirement and all the commensurate benefits.

My father was disappointed.

My brother was quietly devastated.

I recently watched "Patton" for the first time.

A great movie, by the way - well worth it. Patton, as played by George C. Scott, believes himself to be the reincarnation of Hannibal and a host of other great military generals from eras past. He lives and breathes to fight. But, in the course of the war, his excessive disciplinary tactics cause him to fall out of favor and he's subsequently removed from the field of battle by his superiors. His response?

"The last great opportunity of a lifetime - an entire world at war and I'm left out of it? God will not permit this to happen - I will be allowed to fulfill my destiny. His will be done."

My brother's been trying to get his Army commission re-instated ever since.

And, despite his age, and an old knee injury, and slightly high blood pressure, and one kid in college and another soon to go, despite his belief that Robert MacNamara should, in his words, "burn in Hell" for his conduct of the Vietnam war and that Donald Rumsfeld should be immediately fired for his conduct of THIS war, he finally succeeded.

My brother was re-activated as a Captain in the Army reserves in February.

And, when I called him on his birthday last month, he told me that, earlier that day, the Army had called him up for active duty.

He's shipping out today. And, after spending a month in his birthplace, Fort Hood, TX, for additional training, his unit will be shipping off to Iraq.

Baghdad, to be exact.

For a year.

They'll be training Iraqis to manage military truck convoys.

I can remember a conversation I had with my father a few months ago, where I said that I felt that my brother was being tremendously irresponsible. He's a family man, after all, volunteering to walk into a killing zone.

But, then again, on a smaller scale, the same charge of being irresponsible could have been levied against me.

I remembered the day I left the east coast, and my outrageously high paying tech job during the height of the internet boom, to come out to California for film school. I'd packed up my apartment in New Jersey the day before, and I was back in Baltimore, looking for a battery for my watch with my Dad. And, as I was laying out all of the things I still needed to do once I got to L.A., Dad just stopped me.

He said "You really want to do this, huh?"

I said "Yeah".

He looked at me hard and asked "Really?"

I still said "yes".

Dad just shook his head and said he would support me in any way that he could, even though he didn't understand it. He said "if I were you, I would really have to think long and hard about the money I was leaving behind."

And I sort of bristled at that. I'm not a stupid person. And this was not a decision I was making lightly. I'd been considering, and planning this move, or something like it, for years. Then, when I was still young and single and childless, was the supremely responsible time to do it.

And, more importantly, it was the truth.

It was who I am.

I am a storyteller.

I have to be in the place where the stories get told to tell the stories to the most people. I HAD to leave.

I would die if I didn't go.

Ironically enough, the day I left for California, my brother volunteered to come with me to help me move in. We rode a train from D.C. to L.A. for four days and sat on the floor of my empty apartment watching Jerry Springer on his Sony Watchman for a week.

My brother is, also, not a stupid person. He's been planning this for years. His whole life has been pointing to this moment. He's constructed things in such a way that, not only is his Army pay a significant, tax-free raise over his regular salary, but, because he has such a ridiculous amount of vacation time saved, he'll actually still be on the payroll for the first 2-3 months that he's on active duty. Debts will be paid. Tuition will be paid. His job will still be here.

I am a storyteller.

My brother's a soldier.

This is who he is. He'd die if he didn't go.

It's the truth.

Yesterday, my family had a bon voyage party for him. And, unfortunately, because it all happened so fast, I couldn't be there. We finally tracked each other down by phone while my girlfriend & I were in the local esoteric bookshop.

I asked him how he felt, and he paraphrased Steve Buscemi from Armageddon:

"I'm feeling a mixture of excitement and terror, and I'm not sure which one I feel more."

He told me he'd be e-mailing me instructions in case something "unfortunate" happens, because he trusts me to be more clear-headed than Mom or Dad in that instance. I told him I knew he'd make us proud. And, since he was using my cousin's phone and didn't want to use up his minutes, we said our good-byes.

And I had to call his house and leave him a message to tell him that I loved him.

We don't really say those sort of things face-to-face. Even by phone.

And I went back into the bookstore, found my girlfriend, and cried.

I felt like I'd just said "good bye", I mean, REALLY good-bye, to my brother.

And my girlfriend asked me if that's what I wanted.

Of course not! What the Hell kind of question is that?!?

And then she reminded me that we always have a choice. Even on how we feel.

Is there any wonder that I absolutely love this woman?

So, instead, I choose to see him safe, sound, living the life he was destined for, and being transformed by it.

And I see me giving him the biggest hug he's ever had when he steps back onto American soil, all smiles and all in one piece.

But, to make a long story short, I cried.

I guess that's why I'm a storyteller.

Please keep my favorite Army Captain in your prayers. And see him home, safe and sound.

Thanks.

Review: Brick

I make movies.

Because I love movies.

Especially the good ones.

"Brick" is a good one. A REALLY good one.

Imagine "The Maltese Falcon", but, instead of the streets of gangland-era San Francisco, the story takes place in and around the confines of an equally seedy & dangerous Southern California high school.

Yeah, I know - it sounds crazy on it's surface. But, honestly, it's the best written, acted, & directed film I've seen in a theater this year.

Period.

Moreover, I'm equally inspired by the writer/director Rhian Johnson's story - this is the first script he wrote coming out of film school, and then he and his best bud & cinematographer spent the next 6 years trying to raise the roughly $500,000 necessary to get it in the can. But, during that time, they continued to "work" on the film itself, so that, by the time they actually got to the set, they knew EXACTLY what they were doing and how and why, which is why it has the stylish yet incredibly accomplished look it possesses.

Did I mention it's also got Richard "Shaft" Roundtree as the Vice-Principle and an appropriately naughty Meagan Good as the literal drama queen femme fetale?


Anyway, check out the trailer and get a peek for yourself. Nothing I say here can really do it justice.

And, if you want to see a future superstar in the making, check out Joseph Gordon-Levitt's turn as Brendan, the hardboiled teenage Sam Spade of our story. Between this and his role in last year's Mysterious Skin (one of the most hypnotically disturbing movies I've ever seen), you'll completely forget that he was the little kid on "3rd Rock From The Sun".

Right now, it's only in L.A. & New York, but keep an eye out - I suspect Focus is going to give it a wide release soon.

UPDATE - January 22, 2013: Boy, was I right about Joseph Gordon-Levitt, or WHAT?  :-)

For a limited period of time, you can watch "Brick", it it's entirety, on Hulu.  See?



And, if you need an addititonal Megan Good fix, you may also want to check out her new show, "Deception", also on Hulu.

Post Accident Report

My girlfriend & I recently moved into a lovely little suburban house here in the Crenshaw district of Los Angeles. Two car garage, front & back yard, porch - the works. Nothing but palm trees line the street. Three speed bumps on the block. It's primarily a neighborhood of working-class Black folks, many of whom have lived on this very same block for years. Just before we moved in, an old Black man on a bicycle, a part of the neighborhood watch, stopped to question me until he was satisfied that this actually WAS my house.

I keep telling everyone I'm going to get an L.A. Times subscription just so I can pick up the paper in my bathrobe every morning and complete my "Ward Cleaver" fantasy.

I used to live in Hollywood. My old apartment building was, originally, a pretty wide mix of Hispanic families, Armenian families, and students like yours truly from the film school around the corner. But, over the course of the three years I lived there, most of the other students had left, and many of the Hispanic families, growing from new little ones or recently arrived relatives, expanded to fill in the gaps. The Armenians were relatively quiet, except for this one kid who was always in trouble with the cops. One day, he just disappeared. This was after he started threatening his girlfriend with a gun in the middle of the building driveway.

The rest of my neighbors were relatively quiet & pleasant. Working class folks, raising their kids and making the ends meet. I still have fond memories of our local handyman, a recent immigrant from Guatemala, who barely spoke English. And, I, with my 8th grade Spanish, wasn't doing much better. But we still managed to chit-chat and communicate and maintain some level of friendship. I liked him, and I think I missed him the most when I moved.

But, to be quite honest, I didn't miss the weekly Salsa lessons that had just started to be given just outside my window. And I didn't miss the weekly barbeques, also being thrown outside my window, where they all seemed to listen to the exact same Tejano song all day every freakin' day.

I'm originally from Baltimore. I once got into an argument with one of my college classmates about living in "the Black Community". This was a concept that, at the time, seemed patently absurd to me. Retrospectively, of course it would. Baltimore was 60% Black. You really had to go out of your way to NOT live in the Black community.

Not the case in Los Angeles.

And I know, one of the big factors that lead my significant other and I to move into Crenshaw (as opposed to Silver Lake or Pasadena or even Hollywood) was that we really missed our own culture. We missed the comfort and the ease and the familiarity of living amongst our own.

We missed being home.

Oddly enough, when we initially started looking for a place, if you go through most of the online apartment rental hubs, and most realtors, they don't even mention or list spaces south of the 10 Freeway. Everyone told us we could never find the kind of place that we wanted for the price that we wanted.

But we visited a friend who was living in a 2-story apartment down here in Crenshaw, who was paying roughly the same amount as I was paying for my one bedroom in Hollywood.

And how did she manage that? The little inside secret, in her words: "Black people will work with you."

And, so, here we are.

We recently had a visit from a close friend and her kids. They are absolutely lovely souls, deeply intuned with their spiritual sides. Very warm and loving. My girlfriend's known these people for years.

But, as they drove through the streets approaching our home, one of their sons kept saying to himself over and over again "I'm going to get shot!". That is, until he realized that he wasn't just passing through the Black neighborhood, but was actually going to be spending some time there with the family friends that he knew so well.

Did I mention they're white? Do I even have to?

Anyway, after an unusually exhausting weekend, we opted to stay home last night to watch the Oscars.

About an hour into the show, our doorbell rang. We both looked at each other, as if to say "did YOU invite someone over?" Not knowing who this might be, I flicked on the porch light and opened the door.

Across the threshold, I found a Hispanic man who spoke extremely poor English. From what he could manage, the best I could figure was that he'd traveled through Honduras & Guatemala en route to Los Angeles, but, since then, he'd been sleeping on a bench in Leimert Park. He constantly mimed pulling his denim jacket tight & shivering, to indicate how cold he's been. He often jestured to the ground, and then made reassuring motions, saying "es no problemo". But, despite how many times I asked, he could never actually say what he wanted.

In all honesty, I found myself falling into that trap that everyone talks about, where you try to speak slower, as if distinct syllables will suddenly tranform into Spanish from English in mid air if they'd only slow down.

Neither of us had any idea who this man was. From the looks of him, he appeared to be a migrant worker of some sort. But all he could say was that he was cold sleeping in the park.

Now, this entire non-conversation took place across our fairly heavy duty screen door. I remember the day our landlord suggested to us that he install one. See, we have a little window near the top of our front door, and, as the landlord demonstrated, a tall guy like him could just come right up to it and peek inside.

It was only when I started to close the front door, apologizing the whole way, that the man FINALLY brought his hand to his mouth, as if he were eating something.

He wanted food.

He walked all the way from Leimert Park into a darkened suburban neighborhood and randomly picked our house to ask for assistance.

We'd just had dinner. I was just coming back from grocery shopping when the Oscar telecast had started.

Whenever I'd walked past a panhandler in Manhattan, I always remembered the Gospel scripture where Jesus said "whatever you have done to the least of my children, you have done to me."

But when I looked at this poor man on my newly acquired doorstep, I thought two things.

1. He was obviously much stronger than me & my girlfriend combined.
2. He was desperate. Desperate enough to knock on the door of a complete stranger in a strange country.

Desperate men commit desperate acts.

And now, I'm the man of the house.

I remember my right wing Republican brother (and father of two) once said, "it's hard to stand on your principles when you're responsible for other people's lives."

All I could say to the man was "I'm sorry".

I closed the door, locked it shut, and turned off the porch light.

And later, as I took out the trash, I remembered that the lock on the flimsy wooden gate that leads unto our driveway and backyard was broken. My mind was racing: just how desperate was he?

Desperate enough to camp out on our porch until someone eventually opened the door?
Desperate enough to sneak into our backyard and lay in wait?
Desperate enough to smash a window and just come in to take what he needed?

I put away the trash VERY quickly.

A few hours later, Crash won the Oscar for Best Picture of the Year.

Just a few days before, I heard a bunch of local film critics on the radio completely trash the film, saying that it's stereotypical and doesn't reflect the REAL Los Angeles, i.e. the Los Angeles that THEY live in. They didn't just dislike the movie. They hated it. They were offended by it.

If I had to guess, I'm willing to bet that every single one of those critics, along with most of the people who loathe Crash, are, politically, very liberal, and, ethnically, very White.

And while the movie may not reflect THEIR Los Angeles, it sure as Hell reflects mine.

Los Angeles in all of it's complexity. Beauty. Horror. Love. Hate. Joy. Pain. Wisdom. Ignorance. Mercy. Vengeance.

This is a City of Possibilities. Where everyone is capable of EVERYTHING, good and bad, at any given moment.

And to pretend otherwise is the highest, most onerous form of denial.



And, on a related note, for all those people who felt like Brokeback Mountain got robbed, and that it's a sign that Hollywood just really isn't ready to embrace such a landmark, watershed film, so they picked Crash, the safe choice - I have this to say:

Yes, Crash is the safe choice - it's a better movie.

Brokeback Mountain was beautifully composed and depicted, which is why, among the nominated directors, Ang Lee deserved to receive an Oscar for his work.

The original short story Brokeback was based on is, like, 15 pages or something. So, to be able to stretch that out into a 2 hour movie with authentic characters & real pathos is a true feat of screenwriting. Which is why, among the nominated screenwriters, Diana Osanna & Larry McMurty deserved to receive an Oscar for their work.

But that, my friends, is it. Because, at the end of the day, Brokeback Mountain is merely a portrait of two lives interrupted. A snapshot. A beautifully depicted, amazingly acted snapshot, but a snapshot, nonetheless.

It's NOT, in the strictest sense of the word, a story. It's incomplete, and, in the end, for me, at least, unsatisfying.

In fact, that's the way that I felt about all the nominations for Best Picture. In fact, Munich was so unsatisfying, I didn't even go see it. (bad joke, I know). Not to say that I didn't enjoy these films. On the contrary. I thought Capote was exquisite, and I wish there were more films in the same vein as Good Night and Good Luck. But they all left me somewhat wanting. And not in a good way.

All, that is, except Crash.

Of the films that were actually nominated, Crash is the best.

And, personally, I can't wait to see what Paul Haggis does next.

After he's done re-writing Casino Royale, that is.

A Government of Men

So, pretend for a minute that I liked hunting.

I go to the home of a rich buddy, i.e. a place with alot of private land, with some other dudes, have one or two alcoholic beverages, and then pick up a shotgun to go duck hunting.

If I then, say, SHOT one of said dudes, one would think that the local constables would:

1. detain me
2. check my blood alcohol level
3. probably charge me with reckless endangerment

This is all assuming that they guy didn't die from being shot in the face.

Moreover, if I happened to be employed in law enforcement myself, I'd like to think that I would voluntarily submit to being detained and being tested and, since the guy is my friend, let the chips fall where they may.

You know, actually take responsibility for my actions.

Because accepting responsibility isn't just a matter of raising your hands and saying "my bad" after you cap someone with a hunting rifle. Accepting responsibility is ultimately about accepting consequences.

Of course, my name isn't Dick Cheney.

Now I know that, if my name is Dick Cheney, I can actually leave the state without undergoing any questioning or testing of any kind. And, honestly, what prosecutor or judge in his right mind would ever try to bring any kind of charges against someone named Dick Cheney.

Oh, yeah. Right. "A prosecutor or judge who feels that no man is above the law would."

John Adams, the very first Vice-President of the United States, once wrote that America must be a government of laws, not men.

How times change.

The Original

In Monroe, North Carolina in the 1930's, many young Black girls worked as domestic servants & whatnot in the white households on the other side of town. These girls were often forced to walk home at night on unlit country roads, where they would routinely be terrorized by white men driving along the same way.

Rob Williams was a teenager at the time. He and a couple of his buddies started camping out in the woods along those same roads at night. And when a truckload of rednecks would ride pass and try to harass a young sista just trying to make it home, Rob & his buddies would stone the rednecks.

The harassment stopped.

I believe he got his first gun from his grandmother.

As you can see, very little had changed about Mr. Williams by the time he'd grown up.


In 1962, he published a manifesto called "Negroes with Guns" which eventually found it's way into the hands of another young man named Huey Newton.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

This month, PBS is airing a documentary on the life and times of Rob Williams, entitled, (surprise-surprise) "Negroes with Guns". I had the great fortune of seeing this film at the 2004 Los Angeles Film Festival, and I'm so happy to see that it actually got some sort of wide distribution.

If you want to get a better idea of the origins of the Black Power movement, I highly recommend it. Click the link in the title to find out when and where it's playing in your town. Or just go to PBS.org.

You can also still buy Mr. Williams' book, here from Amazon.com:

Belafonte Speaks His Mind

Remember, way back in 2002, when Harry Belafonte called Colin Powell a house slave? Well, it sounds like he was just getting started. Click the link above and see what he has to say about our Fearless Leader and the Holy Crusade on Terror to Wolf Blitzer.

Money Quote:

BLITZER: I see you're not backing away from one word of what you said.

BELAFONTE: No, I can't. Dr. King is my mentor and I believe in truth.

Amen.

more on "Hostel"

As an addendum, here's the Q&A that Eli Roth gave after the "Hostel" screening I attended last month. Great stuff!

Creative Screenwriting Magazine: Hostel Q&A

Review: Hostel, or, The Worst Place on Earth

Ask my Dad, and he'll tell you that his favorite movies are "Cowboy Movies" and "Monster Movies".

Needless to say, my mother, who's tastes run somewhere between "Sister Act", "Ghost", and "The Preacher's Wife" is not a fan. She tells me that, not long after they were married, Dad took her to see "Blood Feast" in a drive-in theatre. A fter a girl in the movie answers a knock on the door and summarily has her tongue snatched out of her mouth, Mom declared that Dad was on his own with these films from now on.

I guess it pays to have sons.

When we got our first VCR in the mid '80's, it kind of looked like a humongous boom box, with a handle and everything - it came with a prehistoric camcorder and was designed for shooting on location. In other words, you had to take the VCR with you if you wanted to shoot anything with the camera. Anyway, we soon got a membership at Erol's Video Club, and, as you can imagine, after the 'rents got their obligatory bit of nostalgia watching tapes of the old "Amos n' Andy" show (and, no, I'm not kidding - my folks, venerable old Black couple that they are, LOVED that show), eventually, the man of the house began to assert his tastes.

Dad liked Gladys Knight. My brother? Morris Day. And I was absolutely smitten with Madonna (it's something about the album cover for "Like A Virgin" - what can I say? :-))

The men in our house didn't have alot in common.

But we REALLY bonded over those horror movies. Movies like "Fright Night" and "Creepshow" and "Silver Bullet". I can remember watching "From Beyond", made by and starring the same folks as another household favorite, "Re-Animator", and, in watching Jeffrey Combs' demise at the end, Dad turned to us and said "Man! He hasn't made it through one of these YET!"

Today, I am, among other things, a screenwriter.

And I say that with a bit more pride now because this is the first year that I have actually been paid to write. But that's just one more story about why 2005 has been a banner year for yours truly.

And, although I've written quite alot for TV in the last few years, largely because my agents are TV lit guys, my first love is still feature film.

And I have a special place in my heart for horror movies.

And, as my cousin pointed out, for a kid who used to be scared of George Hamilton in "Love At First Bite", I've come a LONG way.

Which brings us to today. Or, more specifically, last night, where I went to a screening of the new film "Hostel", followed by a Q&A with the writer/director, Eli Roth - the same guy who created "Cabin Fever".

Eli Roth is a horror fan. And, like me, he laments the steady descent into mediocrity of the modern American horror film.

I saw him speak at a panel during the Los Angeles Film Festival back in 2004, along side the likes of fellow directors Tobe Hooper ("The Texas Chainsaw Massacre"), Joe Dante ("The Howling"), Don Coscarelli ("Phantasm"), and Guillermo del Toro ("Chronos") to discuss the state of horror films. At one point, the moderator, Elvis Mitchell, asked this virtual "Murderer's Row" of horror heavyweights when will horror become a respectable genre.


Dante lamented that many in Hollywood regard horror with just slightly more esteem than porn - they know they can make money from it, but they don't want to admit that they make these kinds of films. And, it occurs to me that what horror has become in Hollywood is an attempt to have it both ways. The major studios are desperate for the horror audience's money, but they want to be respected, too. And no one gained respect in a Brentwood party for being the producer of "I Spit On Your Grave" or "Make Them Die Slowly". So they crank out a bunch of half-assed, PG-13 horror films that, quite frankly, are a waste of time and money because they're simply not scary.

At that same panel, Guillermo del Toro got it right when he said that he hopes horror NEVER becomes respectable, because, at that point, it stops being horror.

Janet Leigh getting stabbed to death while she's buck naked in a shower in "Psycho".

Linda Blair masterbating with a cross while the Devil inside her shouts "let Jesus fuck you!" in "The Exorcist".

A bloody little snake ripping a hole in John Hurt's chest over dinner in "Alien".

A guy gets his foot slowly sawed off with piano wire and the torturer casually tosses it over their shoulder in "Audition".

Horror films are SUPPOSED to offend. They're supposed to shock. They are, by definition, NOT FOR EVERYONE.

They're supposed to be, in a word, horrific.

Why? Because they're cathartic. In Roth's words, "a good horror movie makes you feel like you just had your ass kicked". Kind of like a massage or a good workout.

And because the best of them explore things that might otherwise be left uncovered.

"Psycho's" about the link between sex, abuse, and violence.
"The Exorcist" is about faith - TRUE faith - in action.
"Audition" is about the objectification of women.

All sometimes ugly subjects that require an equally ugly examination to get at the roots.

During the screening of "Hostel", I personally sat next to four people who had to walk out of the movie in horror, and the guy who ran the screening for "Creative Screenwriting" magazine, Jeff Goldsmith, told Eli that he personally had to talk a guy down in the men's room because he was hyperventilating. They literally brought a stage chair into the bathroom because the dude just couldn't bring himself to walk out and face the world.

[On a personal note, I'd like to state for the record that I think those people are kind of stupid - I mean, Eli Roth's last movie was about a group of horny college kids being eaten alive by flesh eating parasites, and that was without a real budget. What kind of movie where they expecting him to make now that he actually has some money?]

When he heard this, Roth joked that he was disappointed. He was hoping he could get a death in the screening, like they had during "The Passion of the Christ". His producer, Quentin Tarantino, had actually encouraged him to shoot for an NC-17 rating. And, in the end, when "Hostel" got an R, he called Rob Zombie to thank him - Mr. Zombie, another old school horror fan, had apparently resubmitted his latest gorefest, "The Devil's Rejects", to the MPAA nine times before they finally gave him an R. Roth figured they were so beaten into submission at that point, they just gave him an R so that they wouldn't have to endure that again.

At some point during the Q&A, a brother up front asked "Can you please talk a bit about the casting process for this film, because I have not seen that many beautiful breasts on a movie screen in a LONG time."

Like I said, I love horror.

So, if you love scary movies, I HIGHLY recommend "Hostel". It's been a while since I have actually winced in horrorified disgust, laughed out loud, cheered, and shout at the screen, all in the same movie. If you can handle the blood, you will NOT be disappointed. Go check it out.

In the meantime, let's see if I can get Eli to produce MY horror movie. :-)

Enjoy.

Blue States

I have a feeling that I've posted or distributed this before, but, it's worth reiterating.

This article from the Atlantic in 2003 indicates that how you answered the following questions is the single most accurate predictor of whether you vote Democratic or Republican:

1. Do you believe homosexuality is morally wrong?
2. Do you ever personally look at pornography?
3. Would you look down on someone who had an affair while married?
4. Do you believe sex before marriage is morally wrong?
5. Is religion very important in your life?

Generally speaking, someone who's not morally outraged by homosexuality, porn, adultery, or fornication almost always votes for the Blue candidates.

Which gets back to something I've felt for a while about this whole abortion debate that it looks like we're about to get into again as we pick a new Supreme Court justice:

It seems to me that, for religiously conservative Republicans, the issue of abortion isn't just about killing unborn babies. They've already made a moral judgement about a woman who would find herself in the position to even consider an abortion.

And even that hints at something even deeper - they think the woman is amoral, and, therefore, should be punished by dealing with this unintended pregnancy.

And the key word here is "punish". I think there is a VERY pronounced element of sadism coursing through the veins of much of the modern Republican party policy-makers.

How else can you explain the apparent fact that someone extremely high in the executive branch has encouraged, advocated, and promoted the use of torture in the War on Terror? Especially when torture is known to be unreliable at best at uncovering intelligence (because, eventually, the guy will tell you whatever he thinks you want to hear to make you stop - even if it's a lie).

Just a thought.

Leading Man

Hollywood Quote of the Day:

"...I'm really lucky. Most people don't get to do what I do, and they certainly don't get movies that I'm trying to get made made. And you know, they'll take that away from me pretty soon. You only get it for a little bit. So when you do it, you might as well do it and get in some trouble."

- George Clooney, in a great interview at Salon.com

Remember what I said recently, about making movies that matter? Well, a few years back (God, have I really been writing on this blog for THAT long?!?!?), I posted an interview about the film Solaris, starring Clooney, directed by Steven Soderbergh, and produced by Soderbergh & the "King of the World" himself, James Cameron, under the banner of Clooney & Soderbergh's production company, Section Eight. Clooney & Soderbergh founded Section Eight with an eye to produce quality projects, the likes of which you'd probably only find among independent films, but, in this case, with studio money & the security of a studio environment.

Now, while they haven't made much money doing it (Ocean's 12 & 11 were their only big hits), they have managed to make some extremely interesting projects, including:

• Far From Heaven, with Julianne Moore & the criminally underrated Dennis Haysbert
  
  
• the HBO original series' K Street
  
  & Unscripted
  
  
• the english remake of Insomnia, by Bat-director Chris Nolan
  
  

The talk is that they intend to dissolve the company soon, but, they're definitely going out with a creative bang.

The first project, "Good Night and Good Luck", is Clooney's sophomore effort in the director's chair and details CBS News legend Edward R. Morrow (played by David Straithairn) kamikaze attack on Joe McCarthy & the Blacklist era. Morrow eventually helped McCarthy crash, but largely at the cost of his own career. In light of the mainstream press's recent appetite for speaking a tiny bit of truth to power, it couldn't be more timely.

The other, "Syriana", stars Clooney as real life CIA agent Robert Baer, and his account of the agency's 10 year war against Islamic extremists in the face of government inertia & oil industry resistence.

Both films are coproduced with a company called Participant Productions
, which ties socially conscious, activist marketing campaigns to the films.

For "Good Night", they've created "Report It Now", a site that encourages the audience to go out and actually shoot their own news reports on issues that each individual thinks is important and hasn't gotten enough attention. Then, like the old Farmclub.com website, on a regular basis, people will vote on the one they think is the best while giving these neglected issues a voice.



And, for "Syriana", they've sponsored the even more ambitious project called, simply "Oil Change", which continues to draw the link between oil & national security and is intended to promote the means by which we can ween ourselves off of foreign oil.

All and all, not bad. Billy Friedkin said "a movie can change a life". I think these guys have significantly upped the ante on these films. Check them out.

Supervillain Quote of the Day

"Well, I've TRIED to be a model citizen, General Lane. I KNOW I promised I wouldn't waste my intellect on Kryptonite robots and elaborate super-death traps. I KNOW that.

But three months ago, I looked in the mirror at those nasty little spiderwebs of lines around my eyes, and I realized something.

I'm getting older and...

...and HE ISN'T.

So, if I want to die happy, it's time to get serious about killing Superman.

Don't you think?"

- Lex Luthor, from Grant Morrison & Frank Quitely's "All-Star Superman", coming in November.

Morrison (the writer) & Quitely (the artist) are the same folks who brought you JLA:Earth 2, the sublimely sophisticated New X-Men, and, one of the most revolutionary comics (in terms of visual storytelling techniques) that I've ever had the pleasure to read, We3.

Click the link above to read Morrison's take on Superman and see just a taste of Quitely's mad art-fu.

Oh, and that's Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor in next year's "Superman Returns", directed by Bryan Singer, who did "The Usual Suspects" and the first two "X-Men" movies.

[UPDATE] Here's a link to Grant Morrison, talking about the story in a bit more detail, and Frank Quitely's artwork depicting the difference between Superman and Clark Kent.

In the meantime, feel free to snag these comic goodies at Amazon below:

Little CREAM

It's late, and I'm tired, but I wanted to get this out while it was still fresh in my mind:

So, the link above is about Micro-Credit, i.e. extending tiny loans to women in Third World countries to help them start basic businesses as a way to lift them out of poverty. When I say "basic businesses", I mean things like lending a woman in Bangladesh $50 so she can buy a cow, milk the cow, & sell the milk for profit. Or by a chicken and sell the eggs.

And, it seems to be working like gangbusters in some countries. The founder of the original MicroCredit bank is a good buddy of Bono's and he's been on Charlie Rose twice.

All very good.

And then I thought about Hurricane Katrina.

Or, more specifically, I thought about how the Hurricane revealed that large chunks of Black America live in conditions, by our standards, are closer to a third world country.

And, yet, the standing joke is how many credit cards and how much bad credit Black americans have.

So, the question in my mind is - if a woman in Bangladesh can borrow $50 and pay it back, plus profit, in a fairly short period of time, what are the barriers to replicating that success among the poor in the U.S.? What would be the urban American equivalent of buying a chicken and selling the eggs?

Bootleg t-shirts & videos?

What obvious opportunity are we overlooking?

Mission Accomplished, Part 2

More from Rev. Tillet on his mission of mercy to the Gulf Coast:

The first leg of our journey is over...but there is MUCH left to do. The rebuilding process will likely take several years and our kin in Alabama and Mississippi will need as much help and support as they can get.

In addition to the ministry we will continue to do locally, we must also heed the words the Apostle Paul received in a vision when he heard, "Come over to Macedonia and help us." Inasmuch as "the earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof, the world and all that dwell therein" then as John Wesley said, "the earth is our parish" and we have a sacred obligation to provide assistance wherever the Lord enables us to go.

It is my prayer that we begin to investigate options for purchasing (or receiving a gift of) a coach bus of our own to facilitate the several trips we will probably make to AL and MS the next 2-3 years to help folks to rebuild. We and many other congregations and organizations will need to be diligent to help people to reclaim their homes lest they lose them to moneyed land developers who will almost certainly try to profit from this disaster by buying discouraged residents out for a fraction of the value of their property near the Gulf. Others might lose their land in tax sales as a result of the economic hardships they experience in the wake of Katrina. Too many times in history African Americans have owned valuable and coveted land and lost them for a lack of resources or vision. We know how that game is played. We have seen it unfolding in Annapolis. We must develop strategies to prevent it both at home and on the Gulf Coast.

I pray your fervor and interest will not wane with the passage of time (another common occurrence) because this ministry effort will not be a sprint, but a marathon ("the race is not given to the quick or the strong, but to the one who endures...")

I want to thank members of Asbury Broadneck and our friends and supporters for the generous donation of your time, provisions and money that made our first trip a success. Special thanks is also due to our sister church in Baltimore, my former congregation Mt. Zion, for the truckload of donations, and money, they brought to Annapolis to send with us on our journey.

I hope to capture some of God's most profound blessings and miracles during this trip in my sermon this Sunday. The Lord truly showed off from beginning to end!

Thank you for your support. Your continued support and prayers are needed!

Peace,

Pastor T

Mission Accomplished, Part I

As I mentioned earlier, my former pastor and frequent unofficial Macroscope contributor, Rev. Stephen Tillet and his church, Asbury Broadneck United Methodist Church in Annapolis, MD, were organizing a trip down to the Mississippi Delta to distribute aid, services, and some grace to those stricken by the hurricane. Here's the trip, in his own words:

We began our journey with the intent to “go and see about our kin.” The reports emanating from the south about the disparities in aid and treatment of Hurricane Katrina’s survivors led us to make our thousand mile journey to see for ourselves how hurricane survivors were doing. During the fours days we spent on the Gulf Coast, we saw and experienced awe at the power of nature and at the power of the human spirit.

After Eric and Joel, our “road dogs” from The Capital were reassigned to New Orleans, we continued our ministry to the hurricane survivors in Mississippi and Alabama. Pat and Tenette, the mother and daughter we brought back from the sewage infected public housing complex the night before, stayed with us that evening and worked along side of us for the rest of our stay. Vivian, Paul and LaTosha, the organizers with whom we were working, were helping as many people as possible to relocate, especially those in public housing in Biloxi, MS whose homes were overrun during Katrina by sewage from the adjacent sewage treatment plant.

Sunday started with a return to the warehouse, an old cotton mill, to load up the truck and bus, again, for more deliveries. We had spent much of Saturday helping to organize the warehouse and it had undergone a tremendous transformation by Sunday. What had once been piles of bags and boxes were now rows of clothes, shoes, water and toiletries. The two tractor trailers had been emptied and were gone. We quickly loaded up the truck and the bus to begin our drive to Mississippi to visit some of the areas hardest hit by Katrina.

As a grandson of Mississippi, I was familiar with the geography of northern Mississippi, but was quickly learning about the geography of the gulf coast. Towns I’d never heard of before became our intended targets for the day: Bay St. Louis, Waveland, Long Beach and Pass Christian. After getting stuck in a traffic jam for about an hour on I-10 West, our bus driver displayed great skill in making a U-turn to get us out of the jam. We passed through Pascagoula, MS, found our way to the parallel state road (Route 90 West) and continued our journey to Bay St. Louis, MS. The closer we got to the coast, the more prominent the devastation. We even passed by a large military ship that was no longer in the water but now rested now on land.

The National Guard was directing traffic in that area and prevented everyone but locals and rescue vehicles from venturing in certain directions. We were allowed, however, to go into Bay St. Louis. Rhonda Labat, a local resident, led us into the heart of what remained of the close knit community. A local congregation was providing services to the community and after several days, the Red Cross was finally on the scene, as well. Residents sat in their carports and driveways, swapped stories of surviving the storm and shared provisions with one another. The hot, dry weather allowed most people to stay outside of their homes, since most homes were now developing mold. Extended exposure to mold can have toxic and deadly consequences, so one of the greatest challenges for residents with nowhere else to go or those who refuse to leave is remaining healthy until reconstruction is completed.

Byron Curry and his neighbor, Eric (who has lived with cancer five and a half years beyond the doctor’s estimate, so far) took me in their car to tour Waveland, the next town over, while the rest of our group talked with the people of Bay St. Louis and gave out a few provisions. I noted the smell of mildew in the car, which also had been overrun with water during the storm. It gave me a headache in the short time I was riding, and I wondered how much damage it was doing to the folks who had to endure it every day with no other options.

Though it didn’t seem possible, Waveland seemed to have suffered more damage than Bay St. Louis. Other conversations would reveal that Long Beach and Pass Christian had suffered even greater destruction and no one except residents and “official” organizations were being allowed in. In spite of the devastation, I was impressed with the resilience and humor of the hurricane survivors. Vera Barnes of Waveland spoke of the large screen TV her grandson had given her. She had always felt it was too large for her and that it took up too much room. During the storm, as her son pulled her to safety on the roof of her house she saw it float away, along with the freezer and other appliances. Yet she was grateful to be alive and glad to see that Byron and Eric had survived, too. There had been losses in these towns, so every time people would see old neighbors and friends who had survived the storm, there was a reason to rejoice. Most residents say they intend to rebuild, so it seems these communities will survive and thrive again.

When we returned to our “home” in Mobile, Alabama on Sunday night, there was a BBQ waiting. Our hosts, Mr. & Mrs. Austin, who opened two of their houses to us, had told us they wanted to do a cook out for us and they waited until we returned from Mississippi at 9 PM. The old adage about southern hospitality is true! They and several of their eight children and twenty three grandchildren served us delicious southern home cooking and fellowship. We are thankful to have met them. As we parted company they reiterated several times that “whenever you’re in Mobile, you have a home.”

Monday our game plan was very clear, to return to Gulfport, MS, locate Katrina survivors in public housing, and distribute more of the provisions we had in the bus and truck. We also wanted to spend some time in fellowship with the residents, so we purchased two grills, some hot dogs and chips and cooked out for them while they gathered necessities for their families and friends. One teen age girl asked me where we were from and when I told her we were from Maryland she asked me why we had come so far and I told her, “to see you.” “Y’all came all this way to see about us? That’s alright!” she said with a big smile. That one conversation made the whole trip worthwhile. A teenager in Mississippi now has a personal understanding about the depths of Jesus’ proclamation that we should “do unto others as we would have them do unto us.” People from Annapolis, Maryland and elsewhere around the nation cared enough to travel hundreds or thousands of miles to see about their kin. We concluded our first mission trip to the south by dropping off the rest of our bounty at the Freewater Missionary Baptist Church in Bayou Le Batre, Alabama.

If we can somehow learn to maintain this sense of community throughout the rebuilding process and even once it’s completed, our nation will be better for it. At Asbury Broadneck, we will now make plans to buy our own coach bus for return trips to the Gulf Coast. There is much work left to do and it will likely take a few years to get it all done. We will be going back again...and again.

More in a bit....

THE SHOCK&AWEMASTER!!!

I'm an Ivy-League educated computer scientist.

I hold a Master's degree from one of the most respected film conservatories in the world.

And one of my most prized positions is a cushioned folding chair I took from the 5th row of Safeco Field during Wrestlemania 19.

In case that wasn't clear enough: yes, I'm also a life-long fan of professional wrestling.

Feel free to take a moment to work out that cognitive dissonance you may be experiencing right now.

Incongruous? Of course not, when you consider that pro wrestling isn't a sport, but really theatre - a spectacle somewhere between Cirque DeSoliel & Ringling Brothers. Yes, the outcomes are pre-ordained. Yes, the punches are pulled. But picking up a 300 1bs. man and throwing him somewhere, let alone BEING said flying 300 1bs. man requires a level of strength & agility that, quite frankly, is beyond any human being I have EVER met in the course of casual everyday events.

And, at it's most basic, its storytelling. In many ways, they're in the same business I am: generating emotions for us to experience. They do it in the most stark, primal, pure form: Will he win? Will he get away with it? Will he get the girl? Will that asshole FINALLY get his ass kicked?

You get the point.

Of course, alot of times, pro wrestling doesn't get it right at all.


Case in point - The Shockmaster!

A big huge scary wrestler with a painted Stormtrooper helmet on - the Shockmaster was suppose to terrify his opponents with his grand entrance - the wall would EXPLODE and then he would storm out and give them a piece of his mind! YEAH!

KABOOM! Big explosion!

And then the Shockmaster tripped over the hole in the wall, and his helmet popped off.

Oops.

"Shock & Awe", huh?

Consider that as you read this article about how the Iranians are viewing America these days? Somehow, between Iraq & Katrina, I don't think they've exactly had the fear of God put in them about "The Great Satan". Money quote:

“How could the White House, which is impotent in the face of a storm and a natural disaster, enter a military conflict with the powerful Islamic Republic of Iran, particularly with the precious experience that we gained in the eight-year war with Iraq?”

Films from the Holy Land

As most of you know, I spend a good chunk of the month of June in Israel, attending a class on Film Producing. In addition to praying at the Western Wall and standing on top of the hill where Jesus was crucified, I actually did do a lot of film related stuff there as well. Which included seeing some great films from the region.


Case in point: "The Syrian Bride", from director Eran Riklis, tells the story of a young woman from the Golan Heights who's engaged to be married to a soap opera star in Damascus. The Golan Heights is part of territory that the Israelis seized from Syria during The Six-Day War in 1967, and Syria still considers it part of their country. In fact, the Druze, the ethnic minority who live there, including our bride, also consider themselves Syrian and many of them have refused Israeli citizenship. Her family is hoping she can have a better life in Damascus, and have agreed to this arranged marriage. But, because of the political situation, once she crosses over the border into Syria, she can never come back to Israel to see her family again. So, in many ways, her wedding day is like a living funeral. It's just an incredibly beautiful film that makes the politics of the region deeply personal. I don't know if it has an American distributor yet, which is a real shame. If you manage to catch it on video or at a festival, I highly recommend checking it out.


On the opposite end of the spectrum is the intense drama, Paradise Now. Produced by an Israeli, but directed by a Palestinian, it follows two Palestinian men who volunteer to become suicide bombers. You watch them transform from a pair of shaggy, laid-back auto mechanics, into sleek, focused, living killing devices as they prepare for their last day on this Earth. Then, the plan goes totally wrong and the two of them are actually forced to confront their reasons for volunteering in the first place. Again, an instance where the political is simply a manifestation of the violently personal.

When we screened this film during the class, once of the producers came to speak afterwards. Needless to say, a number of Israeli students gave him a real tongue-lashing for glorifying the suicide bombers. One of the Jewish American students even went so far as to accuse the film of being anti-Semitic because she was unsatisfied with how it depicted the impact of the bombers on Israeli society. In the end, all of his detractors felt that the film was unbalanced.

To which, I say, "of course".

Film is not journalism. It has absolutely NO obligation to be balanced. It's a story, and every story is entitled to it's point of view. Personally, I didn't think the film was particularly anti-Semitic because, quite frankly, you never see the Israelis. The Palestinian characters talk about them like they're an abstraction, in much the way a lot of Black Americans talk about "The White Man". The film had no intention to be balanced - it's a Palestinian story. An unpleasant one, I'll grant you. But, let's be honest - it's not like there is anyone who DOESN'T know the impact of suicide bombers.

I'm much more interested in "why?". Why would someone, another human being, with a family and a job and a life, volunteer to die just so they could kill complete strangers? I suspect that the answers lie in a despair that is so pervasive, that one can begin to feel that they're one of the walking dead.

While I was there, I also caught a free screening of The French Connection in honor of the director William Freidkin, who was in Tel Aviv directing an opera version of "Samson & Delilah". And, while that particular film is still fairly popcorn, the opportunity to hear Friedkin talk coincided nicely with these two Middle Eastern films. Freidkin told a story about his first film: when he was a young man working for a local TV station in Chicago, he met a priest at a party who worked on Death Row. Friedkin asked the priest if he thought any of those prisoners were actually innocent. When he told him yes, Friedkin grabbed a camera and a cameraman from his station and marched right down to the State Penitentiary. The end result was the TV documentary "The People vs. Paul Crump". Once that film found it's way into the hands of the Governor of Illinois, Paul Crump was granted a stay of execution.

In Freidkin's words:

"That's when I learned that a film can save a life."

Why am I saying all of this?

I am a filmmaker.

In fact, my first produced feature film could be coming to a theatre near you in 2006. But more about that much, much later.

I love movies, and I've loved them all my life. Perhaps they're why I don't really have a Baltimore accent - because I was spending more time with James Bond and Superman and Indiana Jones and Herbert West and Scotty Ferguson and Mike Church, than with the people across the street. But, I firmly believe that movies matter.

Vertigo matters to me.
Deeply. Emotionally.

Apocalypse Now matters to me.
Spiritually.

American Beauty matters to me. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon matters to me. Menace II Society matters to me.

Even genre films like Forbidden Planet and Star Trek II and John Carpenter's The Thing or comedies like 50 First Dates or even a deeply flawed movie like Ali matter to me. They matter in my life.

And they matter not because they're historically accurate or chock full o' facts or a bold indictment of some great wrong.

They matter because they move me. They move me to laugh, or cry, or cheer, or scream, from some place deep inside my heart.

I was asked recently about a film I'd just seen in the theatres, which was #1 at the box office, and I couldn't give it a ringing endorsement. It had it's moments, and the actors were fine and the production was sound.

But, when the credits rolled, the audience simply filed out in silence. No chatter. No applause. Nothing.

In the end, this particular movie simply didn't matter to me. And, I suspect that many of my fellow audience members felt the same way.

The Syrian Bride and Paradise Now matter to the lives of thousands of people I'll never meet across Israel, who's stories may have never been told.

And they remind me that, when I make films, they must matter. First and foremost, they must move my soul first.

Taking Care Of Our Own

Shouldn't someone be talking about giving tax incentives for any business that hires someone displaced by the hurricane, or any property owners who offer free room & board for someone displaced by the hurricane?

Yes, these people need health & food & water now, but their city is gone, and so are their livelihoods. Let's start planning now to re-integrate these folks back into society.

I'd at least like to see some bills introduced at the Federal level, and since folks are being shipped all over the country, it would be great if equivalent bills were presented in all the state legislatures as well.

Contact your local politicians here:
http://www.vote-smart.org/

[UPDATE]Nice to see I'm on the same wavelength as Howard Dean & the Democratic Party. Their new legislative agenda for the hurricane survivors is here:
http://www.democrats.org/a/2005/09/senate_democrat_13.php

The Secret is Out!

And now, a word from my good friend, Rev. Tillet:

Underneath the glittering statistics about “American wealth” there has always been the reality of the bare subsistence of the “have nots.” The fact that only one percent of US citizens control over eighty five percent of her wealth has always been shocking but distant statistical information. The aftermath of Hurricane Katrina has made that huge imbalance a reality for the entire world to see.

Now the secret is out that despite all of its pretensions of wealth and a fair and open society, a significant percentage of our fellow citizens have been living a third world reality for some time and were only one disaster away from being destitute, desperate and dangerous. The reality that many of our fellow citizens have been living just above squalor for years has been either the best kept secret or the most ignored reality of our economic “boom time” expansion. And now something as basic as the lack of resources to avoid an approaching Category Five hurricane has brought it all to light. Unfortunately, they didn’t have the option to grab their credit cards and hop into their cars or onto a plane to flee the coming storm. As a result, the “least, the last and the lost” are all that remains of a once proud city, and Hurricane Katrina has laid the lie of American opulence bare.

The key question now is: what will our nation do about it? Will she be satisfied to apply a flimsy bandage to a gaping wound and then rebuild the tenement-quality living for her own third world citizenry? Or, worst still, will she follow her historical commerce-first penchant and use this as an opportunity, to commandeer the abandoned land and turn it into high priced condominiums and office buildings? This is the time for the nation to correct a systemic wrong that continues to afflict the descendants of America’s shameful legacy of chattel slavery. Unfortunately, the history and legacy of this nation has always been about commerce before community and profits before people. The chickens have come home to roost. And lest we regard this as a unique or isolated incident, there are countless other urban and rural areas in the nation that are one disaster away from a similar level of suffering, neglect and anarchy.

In spite of our flowery pronouncements, the laws on the books and Amendments to the US Constitution, the shameful legacy of Jim Crow Apartheid in America is always with us and we have nowhere to hide or to hide the problem! And now that the secret is out, the recourse seems to be to blame the victim. One need only surf on the Web to find pictures of hurricane survivors with vastly different, yet telling captions. In two photos with people wading in waist-deep water we read that the African American person was carrying what he had “looted” from a store (who “loots” diapers and water, anyway?) while the white couple was carrying food that they had “found.” Say what? The offending photos and captions have since been removed, but the underlying and constant racist messages they relay remains. I doubt that if a majority of the hurricane victims were white they would be referred to in third-world terminology as “refugees.” I’m sure they would then be proudly referred to as “hurricane survivors.” And human nature being what it is, let any group of people be forced to wade around in putrid, contaminated water with no food, water or relief and anarchy will ensue, whether they are in New Orleans or Kennebunkport, Maine.

I cannot imagine what it must be like to have a disaster bearing down on you and yet to have no viable option or means to escape it. Most people did not remain in their homes because they wanted to. They remained because they could not afford to leave. The continuing legacy of Apartheid America creates and sustains people who are too poor to leave yet are the most ill equipped to stay. An article written in my own local Annapolis newspaper, The Capital, by a native of Louisiana who is returning home to assist his family, referred to the situation in New Orleans as what happens when “the best” depart a city and leave it to “the worst.” I never knew that being born poor or in challenged family circumstances made one “the worst.” Conversely then, it would seem that living on the wealth built upon the suffering and sweat of people stolen from their native land and abused and neglected for centuries and then left to rot in urban ghettos makes one “the best.” That is curious and dubious logic.

When Jesus said, “the poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want” (Mark 14:7) he wasn’t saying that it was acceptable for people to be poor. He was saying that unless human beings learn how to overcome their sinful disposition to be selfish, arrogant and greedy, the victims of those sinful attitudes and actions would always be poor and would always be among us. I think Proverbs 28:13 gives us the direction we need to take to move to a new level of community and mutual accountability. It says, “He who conceals his sins does not prosper, but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy.” Until our entire nation understands that it has committed crimes against humanity – its own citizens, no less – and confesses and seeks forgiveness and makes restitution for those sins, we will continue to remain stuck in a moral quicksand of our own making. There’s no need for further obfuscation, blaming the victim or cover up. The secret is already out. The next step is up to you…and God (and the world) will be watching.

Prepared by Pastor Stephen Andrew Tillett
Of the Asbury Broadneck UM Church, Annapolis MD
AsburyBroadneck1@aol.com

I recently read that some of the evacuees didn't want to leave because they were afraid they would have to pay for the helicopter ride out of harm's way.

I think that about says it all.

[UPDATE] when I last spoke to Rev. Tillet, he was organizing a bus trip down to the Mississippi Delta. In talking with my mother this weekend, she told me that he'd collected roughly 4 truckloads of clothes, canned goods, & the like to distribute among the afflicted. I believe they're on their way down there now. If you'd like more information, or, if you're near Annapolis and would like to contribute or even join them for the trip, try contacting him at his church.

Survivors Reunited

The name says it all.

In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, some very good friends of mine created this totally free online database where folks who are looking for their loved ones or loved ones who are looking to be found can post their contact information.

If you, or anyone you know can benefit from this, please do so, and spread the word.

A Parable

When I was a boy, we had a new pastor in my church. He seemed good enough, until the day came that we had a special meeting of the entire congregation after service to appoint two chairmen for our annual "Eastern Shore Day" event. It was a weird process - anyone could nominate anyone else, but, if you were nominated, you could always decline before a vote was held. Which is exactly what happened. Lots of people nominated someone else, who immediately declined.

Finally, our new pastor grabbed the microphone and scolded the congregation: "Remember, this is for God."

And the very next person who was nominated sheepishly accepted the position.

I think I was only 13 at the time. But, I think it's safe to say that, in that moment, I knew what evil was.

I complained to my mother and father that our pastor had just manipulated the faith of our congregation to achieve his ends. Granted, we needed someone to head up the program. Yes, it was for a noble cause. But it was the WAY he did it.

A man who'll do anything is, by definition, a man who cannot be trusted.

Roughly 5 years later, I was off to Princeton, but my church was in shambles. The congregation had been reduced to a skeleton crew - many long time members were driven away by the irrational, vendictive, tactics and rank incompetence of the pastor. The parsonage was in disarray. The church was practically bankrupt from extravagant, yet totally unnecessary & irresponsible projects like installing central air throughout a 150 year old gothic cathedral. And the conference refused to heed the cries of those who remained, desperate for a new leader. It was only after those members who were left withheld their offerings and refused to financially support the church or the conference, that the bishop finally got the message and got us a new pastor. In time, the church rebuilt into something even better than it's past glory.

Many years later, my mother (one of the diehards who would NEVER let anyone, not even a whack pastor, run her out of HER church) told me that one of the other members had run into our old, whack pastor. Not only was he completely unrepentent about the damage he'd done to my church. He proudly proclaimed that God had sent him on a mission to break the church down.

Why am I telling this story today?



America lost a city this week.

Whoops.

As my girlfriend often says "everything is for you." It's either for your benefit, or it's for your education.

I think we have alot more learning in store over the next three years, y'all.


Paul Krugman says it best:

I don't think this is a simple tale of incompetence. The reason the military wasn't rushed in to help along the Gulf Coast is, I believe, the same reason nothing was done to stop looting after the fall of Baghdad. Flood control was neglected for the same reason our troops in Iraq didn't get adequate armor.

At a fundamental level, I'd argue, our current leaders just aren't serious about some of the essential functions of government. They like waging war, but they don't like providing security, rescuing those in need or spending on preventive measures. And they never, ever ask for shared sacrifice.

Amen.

New World Order

Yes, I know, it's been a long time, my friends.

So, just to recap what's happened since I last spoke through the 'Scope:

- I saw premium gas the other day for $3.30/gallon here in Los Angeles.
- Terrorists have attacked my sweetheart's home city of London. Twice.
- approaching 2000 dead American soldiers in Iraq
- did I mention that Iraq is about to become an Islamic Fundamentalist satellite of Iran?
- the President has completely dismissed the Kyoto accords for climate change because he falsely believes it will hurt America economically

In other words, the world's in a bit of a mess right now.

But, as usual, I have imminent faith in the genius of humanity to ultimately get us out of this mess.

Case in point - Brian Schweitzer is a former rancher who was elected the governor of Montana last year as a Democrat in a state where Bush beat Kerry by 20 points. Clearly, this dude has a bit more on the ball than most.



Now, Montana happens to be sitting on top of 120 BILLION tons of coal - nearly 1/3 of all the coal in the entire United States. Looking at ways to jumpstart the post-acrigultural economy in his state, Schweitzer may have just uncovered a potential gold mine.

In the 1920's, a couple of German scientists invented a way to make synthetic petroleum out of coal, called the Fischer-Tropsch process. It was impractical to use in a large scale as long as crude oil cost under $30/barrel.

At the close of business today, crude oil hit an all-time high of $68/barrel.

And Schweitzer is calling everybody who'll listen to say, for $1.5 billion to built a Fischer-Tropsch processing plant, Montana can make 22,000 barrels of synthetic oil a day, for $32 a barrel - and could meet the fuel needs of the entire United States for 40 years.

Did I mention that the process appears to have no negative environmental side effects?

I've been saying for months now that it will take a technological breakthrough to alter the geopolitical framework of the world, i.e. if we didn't need Mid East oil so bad, the Saudis & Co. wouldn't have the money to finance militant Islamic fundamentalists, among lots of other things.

U.S. foreign policy for the last 50 years would be radically different.

And, thus, the world becomes radically different (i.e. war on terror, religious fundamentalism, Israel v. Palestine, neoconservative collapse, global warming, etc.).

Personally, if I was Schweitzer, I'd be having a sit-down with George Soros & Warren Buffet RIGHT NOW.

"PAY NO ATTENTION TO THAT MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!!!"

"I - AM - OZ, THE GREAT AND POWERFUL!!!!!"

Still testing.

Kicking the Tires

I'm just trying out my nifty new "blog-by-email" feature here. Don't mind me.

Sacred Texts

The title of the book is "The Sins of Scripture: Exposing The Bible's Texts of Hate To Reveal The God of Love", to be found here at Amazon.com:



I'm not going to say too much about it (Yet), but I would recommend that you read the reader comments on Amazon about this book. I'm particularly struck by those who reject the thesis presented by the author, retired Episcopal Bishop John Spong, that sin is much less substantial than most people imagine. These critics feel that, without a concept of sin, we have no need for a savior.

In other words, they NEED their sin before they can allow themselves to love God.

Curious, isn't it?

The Conquering Son of Kings

YES!

As many of you have read before, Kweisi Mfume is one of my heroes. Another man who's not exactly my hero, but someone for whom I have nothing but respect and gratitude for his decades of service, is Paul Sarbanes, the senior U.S. Senator from my home state of Maryland.

That's "Sarbanes" as in "Sarbanes-Oxley", that bit of Federal legislation that tried to reign in some of the craziness in the Accounting industry in the wake of Enron. Did I mention that Sarbanes' wife, Christine, was my original Latin teacher back at the dear old Gilman Country Day School for Boys?

But I digress.

Senator Sarbanes is a Maryland institution, so it's a big deal that he's decided to retire at the end of his current senate term.


As a Baltimore boy, I'd like to say "Thank you."

And NOW, we can get into the nitty gritty, because Kwiesi Mfume wants to be the NEW junior Senator from the Line State.

YES!

Considering that a Black man hasn't sat in the US Senate in, like, ever, before Barack Obama, can the Federal government handle having TWO negroes up in there? 'Cause you know all we do when we get together is plot ways to slit massah's throat in his sleep? :-)

Granted, Mfume has a long way to go. Despite the aberration of its current governor, Maryland, as a state, is practically Navy Blue in its politics. (Observe the smackdown Baltimore Mayor Martin O'Malley

is about to lay on my fellow Gilman Greyhound, Gov. Robert Ehrlich

in next year's election). Point being, there are ALOT of Democratic congressmen in Maryland who want to change their pay grade.

And, sadly, there are whole counties of Maryland where Mfume might still be called "boy" or worse.

But Kweisi's a true hustler with national appeal. Watch the brother run.