Another image of those days when it was a big deal to go out to the movies. In the 50s, Hollywood was trying hard to lure people from their spanking new television sets. So they widened the screens, brightened the colors, and pull air up Marilyn Monroe's dress.
This is Grauman's Chinese Theater back in the mid 50s. Luckily, the theater is still open and thriving. A glorious place to see a movie. The only problem is that these days, Grauman's plays the latest releases from Hollywood. A good reason not to go to Grauman's.
You know the monthly routine, celluloid fans. I will skim through the Los Angeles Times movie pages and give you my gut reaction to what's polluting our multiplexes this weekend.
If you really want to see a good film this weekend, order some Chinese take-out and turn your TV to Turner Classic Movies.
About Last Night: Rob Lowe movies are now being remade. Doesn't that scare you?
Dallas Buyers Club: Yes, he did win the Oscar. I guess, for that reason, you should see this dreary film. It's like going to a church when you hear a rumor that some statue is weeping.
3 Days to Kill: An action movie starring Kevin Costner. Was this supposed to be originally released in 1994?
300 - Rise of an Empire: One of those ancient battles in Greece. One side wins. The loser has to move to Astoria, Queens.
The Wolf of Wall Street: Is this a garbage strike right now? Because somebody has yet to pick up this trash.
The Wind Rises: Japanese animation about an aircraft designer. If nobody's eating spinach or a carrot, I'm not interested.
Frozen: I still have yet to see this Oscar winner. Okay, okay, I'll put it in my Netflix queue.
The Great Beauty: Won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film. Okay, if you say so.
12 Years a Slave: Perhaps one of the top five worst movies to win Best Picture.
Junk: Don't we see junk every weekend?
Tyler Perry's The Single Moms Club: Waiting for Tyler Perry's Deadbeat Dads in Prison Club.
Pompeii: A volcano. Lots of people die. Done
The Grand Budapest Hotel: Another hopefully clever offering from the inventive Wes Anderson. On my list, but so is my laundry.
Mr. Peabody and Sherman: Am I the only one to remember that these cartoon characters are new??
The Monuments Men: Saw it. Despite a slow start, this WWII yarn from George Clooney is done in the style of those 1960s movies about the same war. I would have probably seen this with my father if he was still around.
Endless Love: Brooke Shields movies are also being remade. That also should scare you.
Son of God: The Bible summed up in two hours. That's Cliff Notes on steroids.
Ride Along: Am I the only one who has not seen this Kevin Hart guy yet?
RoboCop: This is not your father's RoboCop.
Non-Stop: Reviewed here earlier this week. Order extra butter on your popcorn and enjoy. Just don't try to make sense out of it.
Awful Nice: When it comes to these monthly movie guides, I'm really not.
Elaine Stritch - Shoot Me: The type of documentary that lures me in. Stritch is admittedly an acquired state, but she's been around for 150 years so that's worth something.
Lucky Bastard: An awkward young man wins a contest to star in a porno video. Was my entry lost in the mail?
The Pirate Fairy: From Disney. It's either a cartoon or a completely different take on Jack Sparrow.
Ernest and Celestine: Animation from France and Belgium. It's about the friendship between a mouse and a bear. If totally accurate, the movie should last about thirty seconds. Or how ever long it takes the bear to swallow the mouse whole.
The Lego Movie: I prefer movies that don't snap together.
Gloria: From Chile. An older woman looks for romance late in life. ChileanMingle.com.
Tiger and Bunny the Movie - The Rising: A cartoon from Japan that has way too long a title for me to even bother with.
Tennessee Queer: Hmmm, let me guess....
Uwantme2killhim?: Another validation that computer short hand is killing the English language.
Veronica Mars: Ignored the TV show. Will totally avoid the movie.
Bad Words: Jason Bateman plays a man who enters a children's spelling bee. D-I-R-T-B-A-G.
Better Living Through Chemistry: A straight-laced pharmacist's uneventful life spirals out of control
when he starts an affair with a trophy wife customer who takes him on a
joyride involving sex, drugs and possibly murder. Jane Fonda is in the cast. Remember her?
Grand Piano: Moments before his comeback performance, a concert pianist who suffers
from stage fright discovers a sinister note written on his music sheet. Elijah Wood, John Cusack, and a plot straight out of the mind of Alfred Hitchcock.
The Art of the Steal: An art heist caper with Kurt Russell and Matt Dillon. Remember them???
Need for Speed: Street racing with Aaron Paul and, no, I have not watched a single episode of Breaking Bad.
Shirin in Love: An Iranian romantic comedy set in Beverly Hills. Of course it is.
The Right Kind of Wrong: Leo the dishwasher falls in love with a bride on the day of her wedding - to another man. And that's the quick pitch that got this greenlit???
The Lunchbox: A mistaken delivery in Mumbai's famously efficient lunchbox delivery
system connects a young housewife to an older man in the dusk of his
life as they build a fantasy world together through notes in the
lunchbox. Slumdog Delicatessen?
Tim's Vermeer: Inventor Tim Jenison seeks to understand the painting techniques used by Dutch Master Johannes Vermeer. Zzzzzzzzzzz......
War of the Worlds - Goliath: An animated depiction of an 1899 Martian invasion. This is fiction. Right?
Omar: A young Palestinian freedom fighter agrees to work as an informant after
he's tricked into an admission of guilt by association in the wake of
an Israeli soldier's killing. For those who thought this was about a tent maker. Or the former general manager of the New York Mets.
Haunt: A moody teenager discovers his family has bought a haunted house. Back in 1959, the moody teenager would have been played by Vincent Price.
Dinner last night: Had a big lunch so just a sandwich.
If you live in Los Angeles, this is a common site. The 405 Freeway during afternoon rush hour. Completely clogged. Nobody going anywhere fast. Or slow, for that matter.
The idiots in charge of the state of California have made this disaster even worse over the past several years by taking on a widening process of this road. As a result, there are construction snarls all over the west side of the city. And the crew hired to do the work made a major mistake and had to start all over. Your tax paying and stimulus dollars at work. Shovel ready jobs. Done by human beings who are also shovel ready.
But, I digress...
I suppose that, if you live in any big American city, you have your share of traffic woes. It's inescapable. Way, way too many people behind the wheel. And therein lies my focus today. The main reason why traffic is so freakin' bad in Los Angeles and New York. And I will warn you that it's a radical viewpoint.
My theory is that traffic sucks in major metropolitan areas because of our current immigration regulations. Or lack of them.
What???
You heard me.
The big urban areas are now magnets for immigrants, both illegal and otherwise. And I will contend that it's these assholes who are crashing our daily commutes. And into our cars.
Go ahead. Do your own informal research. See who's pulled over onto the side of the road, trading information with some poor slob. Tell me who they are. Am I doing an ethnic profile? You bet I am.
The next time you're cut off by a driver who is making a last minute dash for the next exit, take a close look. Tell me what you see. Yeah, I thought so.
When you see a pick-up truck with its load precariously tied down, see who's behind the wheel. Yeah, I thought so.
A couple of years ago, I was on the said 405 coming back from a Sunday afternoon in Long Beach. We were breezing along and then, without warning, traffic came to a standstill. We crawled for about three miles until we all could get past the clogging culprit. A big blue bookcase lying in the center lane.
About two miles later, I spotted a van on the side of the road. Its passengers were standing outside and staring at their load. There, in the back of the vehicle was another big blue bookcase. The other part of a matched set. And the idiots were chattering away. Probably asking each other what happened to the other half of their entertainment center.
Likely the question was being posed in a language other than English.
Sorry, but this is no longer the country that embraced your ancestors in the 1920s.
Our biggest problem on our roads are the folks who came into this nation on a freebie. They can't read the signs in English. They can't communicate with the rest of us who speak English. Most of them are illegal and haven't bothered to visit their local Department of Motor Vehicles.
When you have that nasty combination, it's deadly for our traffic patterns.
America was built on immigration. Give us your tired and poor and oppressed. Back in the early part of the 20th Century, the people that came here from the lowly parts of Europe did so with the notion that they wanted to be Americans. They helped to build our cities and infrastructure. They did so by taking the time to learn English. How to speak it. How to read it. How to be part of their new home.
Today, that style of immigration and ultimate assimilation is no longer embraced. As a matter of fact, it's virtually discouraged. Stay connected to your own roots. Speak your own language. We'll accommodate you. Press "1" for English and all other digits for your own personal language. Indeed, the immigrants coming here are no longer predominantly from Europe. Name the squalid countries of the world and that's who is showing up at our doors. Leaving their lands where a discouraging word gets them shot by the demonic dictator in charge.
Come to America. You can say what you want. You can complain about the country all you want. We don't care. Oh, and here's the keys to a car which you can drive without a valid driver's license.
Sheer madness.
We are becoming a third world cesspool. So, are these the folks who are morons in my book?
Absolutely not. The true idiots are once again the people we put in charge on a state and federal level. The shitheads on both sides of the aisle who refuse to anything about the antiquated and largely ignored immigration laws of this country.
Shame on them. Shame on us for electing this roster of scumbags.
The only solace we can get is that they are sitting in traffic right alongside us. Or, in the case of our President's seemingly endless trips for fundraising dinners in Los Angeles, actually creating the jams we are stuck in.
Dinner last night: Sandwich and salad.
Happy birthday, Barbara Feldon. Any excuse to use your photo on this blog is fine by me.
538: VITIGES, KING OF THE OSTROGOTHS, ENDS HIS SIEGE OF ROME AND RETREATS TO RAVENNA, LEAVING THE CITY IN THE HANDS OF THE VICTORIOUS BYZANTINE GENERAL BELISARIUS.
Yes, I typed that long sentence. All by myself.
1622: IGNATIUS OF LOYOLA AND FRANCIS XAVIER, FOUNDERS OF THE JESUITS, ARE CANONIZED AS SAINTS BY THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL.
Which means they're all destined to be high school names.
1811: DURING THE PENINSULAR WAR, FRENCH MARSHAL MICHEL NEY DELAYS THE PURSUING ANGLO-PORTUGUESE FORCES AT REDINHA.
He said "ney, ney."
1864: DURING THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR, THE RED RIVER CAMPAIGN BEGINS AS A US NAVY FLEET ENTERS THE RED RIVER.
Didn't that also wind up as a John Wayne movie?
1868: HENRY O'FARRELL ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE PRINCE ALFRED, DUKE OF EDINBURGH.
Word of advice: if you're going to assassinate a leader, you better get it right the first time.
1881: ANDREW WATSON MAKES HIS SCOTLAND DEBUT AS THE WORLD'S FIRST BLACK INTERNATIONAL FOOTBALL PLAYER.
There would be a few more.
1894: COCA COLA IS BOTTLED AND SOLD FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MISSISSIPPI.
When does the diet version come out?
1912: THE GIRL SCOUTS OF AMERICA ARE FOUNDED.
Two boxes of Samoas, please.
1918: MOSCOW BECOMES THE CAPITAL OF RUSSIA AGAIN AFTER ST. PETERSBURG HAD HELD THIS STATUS FOR 215 YEARS.
I guess the people of Tampa got pissed.
1921: SINGER GORDON MCRAE IS BORN.
Also a well-known drunk.
1923: ASTRONAUT WALLY SCHIRRA IS BORN.
Que schirra schirra.
1928: IN CALIFORNIA, THE ST. FRANCIS DAM FALLS. THE RESULTING FLOODS KILL OVER 600 PEOPLE.
So, where's the nursery rhyme song? St. Francis Dam falling down, falling down.
1933: ACTRESS BARBARA FELDON IS BORN.
If there is any poetic justice, she should live to be 99.
1933: PRESIDENT FRANKLIN ROOSEVELT ADDRESSES THE NATION FOR THE FIRST TIME. THIS IS THE FIRST FIRESIDE CHAT.
Stoke those logs, Eleanor.
1946: SINGER LIZA MINNELLI IS BORN.
Or I could have written it as "JUDY GARLAND GOES INTO LABOR."
1947: THE TRUMAN DOCTRINE IS PROCLAIMED TO HELP STEM THE SPREAD OF COMMUNISM.
Yeah, that worked well.
1947: POLITICIAN MITT ROMNEY IS BORN.
Why wasn't it "Glove Romney?"
1950: ACTOR JON PROVOST IS BORN.
Lassie!!!!
1967: SUHARTO TAKES OVER FROM SUKARNO TO BECOME ACTING PRESIDENT OF INDONESIA.
Don'tcareno.
1973: BASEBALL PLAYER FRANKIE FRISCH DIES.
The Fordham Flash!
1978: ACTOR JOHN CAZALE DIES.
Big mistake, Fredo.
1993: SEVERAL BOMBS EXPLODE IN MUMBAI, INDIA, KILLING ABOUT 300.
Ooops, there goes the call center.
1993: NORTH KOREA SAYS THAT IT PLANS TO WITHDRAW FROM THE NUCLEAR NONPROLIFERATION TREATY.
Thousands of dogs will tell you. Don't trust them.
1993: THE BLIZZARD OF 1993 PUMMELS THE EAST COAST OF THE US.
I remember it well.
1993: JANET RENO WAS SWORN IN AS THE US' FIRST FEMALE ATTORNEY GENERAL.
Where does Reno go when she wants to get divorced?
2001: TV PERSONALITY MORTON DOWNEY JR. DIES.
And cigarette sales fall through the floor.
2009: FINANCIER BERNIE MADOFF PLEADS GUILTY IN NY TO SCAMMING 18 BILLION DOLLARS.
So that's how much he "made off" with?
2011: A NUCLEAR POWER PLANT IN JAPAN MELTS AND EXPLODES.
Thanks again, Japan.
Dinner last night: Leftover chicken and rice.
Right now if you go to the movies, you'll see about two dozen or so trailers for the upcoming summer blockbusters. Each and every one of them looks the same. It's an ultra-noise fest. Computer graphics that portend the end of the world or some other form of mass destruction. Thank you, assholes who run Hollywood. They are the first in line to wring their hands when some idiot shoots up a grade school. Oh, God, how do we let this happen? How can we protect our children? Yada, yada, yada. Well, look in the mirror.
I won't see any of those summer movies. But I will go when it's a good old fashioned thriller about an airline in peril. You can't get go wrong with that plotline ever. And that's why I enjoyed every pulsating moment of "Non-Stop." Indeed, the title is perfect. The movie just doesn't...wait for it...stop.
Okay, I'm a sucker for these doomed airplane movies. One of my favorite films of all time is "Airport," the granddaddy of them all. A star-studded cast all trapped in a metal cylinder 35,000 feet in the sky. The characters are all played by folks you might have found around Dean Martin's dining room table last Thanksgiving. Some will live. Some will die. And, at some point, the flight attendant might be piloting the plane.
Cheesy? You bet. But I love this kind of cinematic Velveeta.
"Non-Stop" is not like "Airport" in that it doesn't populate the movie with a who's who of B list actors from the 70s or 80s. As a matter of fact, there are very few recognizable names in the cast. You do have recent Oscar winner Lupita Nyong'o as a flight attendant with little to say, Julianne Moore as that passenger next to you who just wants to talk, and "Downton Abbey's" Michelle Dockery as the every helpful flight attendant who is obviously slumming it on this side of the castle. Hell, I think she's adorable. I might have seen this movie just for her alone.
But, I digress...
At the center of "Non-Stop" is action star Liam Neeson. Apparently, he makes about two of these action movies every month and has been a big time box office star in his 60s. From what I gather, he plays the same role in every one of these films. The hero that nobody wants to believe. Dealing with alcoholism and mourning the recent death of a family member. Given that Neeson lost his wife, Natasha Richardson, a few years back when she fell on a ski slope and hit her head, the uneasy line between fact and fiction is crossed continually. But, heck, if it works for Neeson, let him have his days in the sun.
In "Non-Stop," Neeson is a federal air marshall who...get it...is told that a passenger will die in-flight every 20 minutes unless he has the airline wire 150 million dollars to a bank account. Hmmm, Neeson's been drinking, right? Oh, he's grief-stricken at the loss of his little girl, correct? Nobody's going to listen to him, are they? Of course not, and that's the wonderful Hitchcockian formula that pulls you in and doesn't let go.
"Non-Stop" is nothing more than an episode of "24" in the sky. Jack Bauer at 35,000 feet. Nobody believes him. He looks as guilty as OJ Simpson. And that's the fun. You know this is all going to work out. The fun is seeing how it does. And, oh, yeah, you want to find out who's going to live and who's going to die.
There are holes, yes. More than you'll find in that comfy bathrobe you refuse to throw out. Logic should be left at the popcorn counter. There's more than one "WTF" moment. And you're hit with every inconsistency every five minutes. For instance, how the hell is it possible for an airliner over the mid-Atlantic to carry television coverage of NY 1, the cable network that is devoted to local news of the five boroughs. Yeah, that's unlikely.
But who cares? When you go to see a movie like "Non-Stop," you simply want to see the formulaic plot points and the expected showdowns. It's meat loaf with macaroni and cheese on the silver screen and you want two big helpings of it.
And that's why "Non-Stop" unravels a little bit in the last twenty minutes. Because socially-conscious Hollywood intervenes and, without giving away the ending, there's one too many connections to what happened in real life on 9/11. Thirteen years later, that fateful day is now being used to tie up the loose ends of an action thriller.
That, however, is the only misgiving I have about "Non-Stop." It gave me exactly what I wanted from a movie like this. It got me from Point A to Point Z. Non-stop.
The rest of you can go to the movies this summer and watch the freakin' world blow up. Me? I like to keep things simple. I just want to see an engine fail and the passengers evacuate via the chutes.
LEN'S RATING: Three stars.
Dinner last night: Leftover barbecue ribs and salad.
Another classic for our anniversary month. The drunk guy in 7-Eleven.
Dinner last night: Barbecued chicken legs, rice, and broccoli.
Ah yes, another movie from my childhood. It seemed to be rerun over and over and over when I was a kid. And I always watched it with amusement. My reactions went from "gross" to "embarrassment" to "hmmmm."
When I was old enough, I suddenly found myself propelled south. In the direction of Fort Lauderdale. What was this phenomenon called spring break? And how can I participate?
Okay, when you look at the cast of this movie, I'm certainly not on a level with George Hamilton and Jim Hutton. Okay, I see Frank Gorshin's name. That's more like it. But, kids went on these excursions for one reason and one reason only. To meet some members of the opposite sex. With emphasis on the last word of that last sentence.
Truth be told, when I was in college, I didn't have the money to go on spring break. Not with my father taking out a college loan to get me through four years of it. But, as soon as I graduated and was making some small semblance of a living, it was time.
My college roommate and I were going to Fort Lauderdale. Where the boys are. Well, in our case, where the girls were. And, oh, yeah, we were boys ourselves. Given that we were a year out of college, we fancied ourselves as some of the more refined guys on the beach. Experienced, older men.
Yeah, right.
I remember telling my dad about my travel plans one March many years ago. Of course, he always replied in the same way when I told him I was going someplace.
"What do you want to go there for?"
I didn't really want to tell the truth. I simply told him I was exhausted after working in a real job for the past five months. Plus it was my dough and I could spend it as I liked. He gave me a cautionary word.
"Don't get anybody in trouble."
WHAT???
I asked him to repeat it.
"Don't get into any trouble."
It's not what I heard. I didn't ask for an additional clarification. At this age, you don't necessarily discuss THAT with your father.
My friend and I sought the use of a travel agent because, back in this day, that's how you went on a trip. There was no website to access. The lady got us into a nice hotel that was literally on the beach. Sweet. And, unlike the way most kids ventured to Fort Lauderdale, we would not be sleeping seventeen to a mattress.
It would just be us. And maybe....
Oh, who the hell were we kidding? It would be us. Because, in a comparison to the movie, neither of us were George Hamilton or Jim Hutton. Or even Frank Gorshin. We were simply shy and borderline dorky us.
Of course, I was going to give this all my best shot. For the six weeks prior to our planned trek into sun and fun, I would lie down on the floor of my bedroom and do 100 sit-ups every night. I needed to present the best possible package. I didn't want to look like Poppin' Fresh in a bathing suit.
Meanwhile, with an eye to this spring break nonsense, I had gone for official swimming lessons the previous fall with my neighborhood buddy Leo. I had known how to stay afloat when I was a kid in my cousin's backyard pool. Now I had to look like a professional. Just in case any damsel needed saving.
Oh, who the hell was I kidding?
We went from a blustery March day in New York to a deliciously warm 80 degrees at the Fort Lauderdale airport. The hotel was as advertised. Right on the sand and we immediately went out to lie on it.
Day 1? Major sun burns for the both of us. The kind of skin frying that makes you want to stay in bed. And not move.
We did just that on Day 2.
We were better on Day 3 and, after a cautious day in the sun, we settled into what would be our nightly Florida routine. The beach during the day. Back to the hotel for a shower. Then dressing in our finest Qiana shirts and double knit slacks for dinner out at some swanky restaurant.
After gorging ourselves on steak and sautéed mushrooms, we'd then put ourselves out on another kind of meat market. We found one of those glitzy dance clubs, grabbed a bottle of beer, and stood on the side.
Watching and looking and surveying and...
Ultimately doing nothing.
Oh, we eventually, after much deliberation, asked a couple of girls to dance. Some said yes. A lot said no. And I began to wonder.
I did 4200 sit-ups for this??
But, as fruitless as this all was, we never varied our routine the entire time we were there.
Beach.
Shower.
A big steak.
Standing around and doing nothing.
Would you like to dance?
"I'm waiting for my friend in the bathroom."
"I stubbed my toe on a shell today."
"I can't. I'm having my period right now."
Yes, I heard that.
So, unlike the movie, there was no Dolores Hart or Paula Prentiss or Yvette Mimieux or Connie Stevens in our immediate future. We came to that realization pretty quickly and then began to focus on the last day of our trip. When we would drive up to Orlando and spend the day with Mickey and Minnie Mouse.
On the day before our big drive to the Magic Kingdom, we saw a note on the bulletin board in our hotel lobby.
"THREE GIRLS LOOKING TO SHARE RIDE TO DISNEY WORLD ON SUNDAY."
Whoa!!!
All of a sudden, there was a very attractive feature about the two of us. Forget the sit-ups and the swimming lessons. We had a freakin' rental car.
We contacted them immediately. And then spent the night before trying to figure how to evenly divide three girls with two very nice young men,
Another waste of energy.
Which we found out fairly quickly at 6AM that Sunday when we all met at our car.
We had fantasized about a wonderful day at Florida's Happiest Place on Earth. Deliciously flirtatious small talk on the way there. Bonding over a chocolate chip cookie baked into mouse ears. Throwing up together on the teacups.
Wrong.
These gals were the original Post-Its. Stuck up.
The small talk didn't get far. I asked what college they were from.
"Michigan. And we all have boyfriends."
Hey, that wasn't my second question. Or third question. Or thirtieth question. But, thanks for the information, bitch.
All the way to Orlando, it was a meeting of the Marcel Marceau tour group. Nary a word was spoken.
My college roommate and I had a great time at Disney World. We debated leaving these chicks there. Oh, sorry, didn't we tell you we were leaving at 8PM? Ooops.
We were nicer than that. And sat through another funeral service as we drove back to Fort Lauderdale.
We had gone all the way to Florida. Where the girls are. And found a whole lot less.
Yep, I had done all those sit-ups for nothing.
Dinner last night: BBQ ribs and other treats at the home of good friends Connie and Leo....yes, the same guy mentioned in the story above.
Paging Connie Francis.
Dinner last night: Beijing beef at Panda Express.
