Here's what was playing at the Radio City Music Hall in September 1950. Even back then, you could see that the more important (and possibly Oscar-worthy) films would start to come out as soon as the Fall season hits. Finally, we might be rid of comic book junk and the usual world-apocalypse nonsense that clutters theaters every Sunday. Stuff with a brain for people who also have...well...a brain. Let's keep our movie going fingers crossed. You know the drill, gang. I'll wander through the movie pages of the local newspaper to give you my gut reaction to what is out there this week. Here's hoping there's something there for all of us to see. Or you could always wait for "Sunset Boulevard" to show up on TCM. Southside With You: The first official romcom starring Barack Hudson and Michelle Day. Yeah, some asshole in Hollywood thought we all needed to see a movie about their first date. Fuck. No. I hear that the south side of Chicago looks virtually idyllic in this film. I guess they weren't shooting it during the usual weekend gang war and gun battle. Bridget Jones' Baby: Abortion. Sausage Party: A dirty cartoon from Seth Rogen. Which also means it's not funny. Rogen is as hilarious as testicular cancer. The People Vs. Fritz Bauer: Relation to Jack? Blair Witch: A reboot of something that shouldn't have been booted in the first place. Bad Moms: Joan Crawford better be in this. Don't Think Twice: Reviewed here on Tuesday. Scroll back. Hell or High Water: Blog review coming. There is a finger pointing upward. Is it the thumb or the middle finger? Stay tuned. The Hollars: Are there any families in America that are not dysfunctional? The Magnificent Seven: The annoying Denzel Washington shits all over another classic. Is there an original idea in your head, Stupid? Best Democracy Money Can Buy: Certainly not in America. Beauty and the Beast: That threadbare story redone again, but not as a cartoon. Pass. Chicken People: A look at the word of competitive poultry. I wrote that just as I read it. The Dressmaker: Kate Winslet stars in another weepy tale---her annual acting enema designed to entice Oscar voters. Goat: College hazing and abuse. They should have seen my first year at Fordham. I.T: Pierce Brosnan's latest attempt to prove he's relevant. Spoiler alert: he's not. Is That A Gun In Your Pocket?: I don't why you ask...I'm not enjoying this movie. My Blind Brother: About somebody's...wait for it...blind brother. Queen of Katwe: A young Ugandan girl who....never mind. People You May Know: A woman gets pregnant by her gay ex-boyfriend. Will and a Distinct Lack of Grace. Storks: The latest animal spotlighted in a dreary cartoon. Indignation: Reviewed here recently. Interesting, talky drama. Should have been a play. Kubo and the Two Strings: Bigger budget could have gotten you three. The Beatles - Eight Days a Week: Will be long gone from theaters by the time my blog review runs. But you can check it out on Hulu. Cardboard Boxer: Somebody fights the homeless...literally. Don't Breathe: Does it smell that badly? The Light Between Oceans: A romance about...good bye. Mechanic - Resurrection: All about padding an invoice, I suppose. Mr. Church: Who dug up Eddie Murphy? Snowden: Oliver Stone's take on the legendary snitch. Expect him to look like Saint Snowden. Suicide Squad: It's your life. Sully: On my list. Clint Eastwood does know how to tell a story. War Dogs: A comedy about Middle Eastern terrorism. Because ISIS is just so damn funny. When the Bough Breaks: This movie will fall. Dinner last night: Mexican feast at Lucy's El Adobe.
Well, I sort of finished reading another book. I'll explain. I was back on a plane and that's really the only time I crack open a book. By the way, it's an actual book and not a Kindle. I like the feeling of a book in my hand as I turn the pages. No scrolling for me. But I digress. A friend loaned me this book, knowing that I was a big fan of the old (and then rebooted) "Dallas" TV show. Larry Hagman, whom I know was an odd duck, was always interesting to me. This would be a fast read. Um, no. Seated in 13C on AA Flight 172 to JFK, I dozed off several times while attempting to read Larry's daughter Kristina's memories of her dad. You want to talk about uninspiring prose? This book is filled with it. Perhaps the dullest writing you will ever encounter. The ingredient label on a bottle of Snapple is more compelling. You would think this would be a juicy tome. I mean, how can you screw up a memoir about a legendary actor living in Hollywood? Well, Kristina did. Indeed, I am sure her intentions were good. She opens the tale with her dad on his death bed. In the throes of pain, he is babbling jibberish but clearly keeps repeating "please forgive me." Okay, Kristina's literary journey will be to try and uncover what Larry was seeking forgiveness for. It beats me if she ever found it. Now I want to hear her repeating the same phrase for putting this book together. The saga meanders from her childhood to adulthood as her dad mounted an acting career first on the stage, then film, and finally TV. Along the way, she liberally recounts their pot parties together. I guess the father and daughter who smoke joints together form a special bond. Then there's a lot of family nudity and all sorts of stuff that was perfected in the mud at Woodstock. This is was quite the free wheeling life style. And, essentially, that's all the author focuses on. Yawn. By half way through the book, I was so completely uninterested by it all that I started to skim the rest of the pages. I started to look for names that might trigger some nice tidbits. Patrick Duffy. Linda Gray. Victoria Principal. Barbara Eden. Nothing. Even when the TV work was discussed, it was indeed some goofy drug episode or an art gallery showing that Kristina's work was featured in. Ugh. At least, she can paint. She certainly can't write. Technically, I guess I did finish the book because I did look at every page of it. But absorb any of it? Lord, no. Kristina, please forgive me. Dinner last night: Prosciutto, heirloom tomato, and mozzarella salad.
Happy birthday to Ricki Lake. Yeah, I know, I'm at the top of the barrel. But I always try to salute birthdays of those still with us. Call me quirky.
19BC: ROMAN POET VIRGIL DIES.
He was born in 70BC and it really sucks when you have to use reverse math to figure how old he was.
1435: AN AGREEMENT BETWEEN CHARLES VII OF FRANCE AND PHILIP THE GOOD ENDS THE PARTNERSHIP BETWEEN THE ENGLISH AND BURGUNDY IN THE HUNDRED YEARS' WAR.
The English had a partnership with burgundy? I thought they drank nothing but tea.
1745: A HANOVERIAN ARMY UNDER THE COMMAND OF SIR JOHN COPE IS DEFEATED IN TEN MINUTES BY THE JACOBITE FORMS OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART.
Doesn't say much about Cope's leadership if he gets his ass kicked in ten minutes.
1780: BENEDICT ARNOLD GIVES THE BRITISH THE PLANS TO WEST POINT.
Must have been harder to commit treason in the days before Wikileaks.
1792: THE NATIONAL CONVENTION DECLARES FRANCE A REPUBLIC AND ABOLISHES THE MONARCHY.
Or should that be...repubic?
1827: JOSEPH SMITH IS REPORTEDLY VISITED BY THE ANGEL MORONI, WHO GAVE HIM A RECORD OF GOLD PLATES, ONE-THIRD OF WHICH SMITH HAS TRANSLATED INTO "THE BOOK OF MORMON."
Possible newspaper headline: Moron Visited By Moroni.
1866: WRITER H.G. WELLS IS BORN.
He wrote the "Time Machine" so he could also be born in 1896, 1926, and 1956.
1897: THE "YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS" EDITORIAL IS PUBLISHED IN THE NEW YORK SUN.
In the middle of September. Virginia might have forgotten this three months later.
1912: ANIMATOR CHUCK JONES IS BORN.
Can somebody tell me why September 21 is not a national holiday?
1931: ACTOR LARRY HAGMAN IS BORN.
Mary Martin was his mom and she got to fly around on Broadway. Well, so did he before he stopped drinking.
1934: A LARGE TYPHOON HITS JAPAN, KILLING 3,036 PEOPLE.
So that's what pissed them off...
1937: J.R.R. TOLKIEN'S "THE HOBBIT" IS PUBLISHED.
Never read the book, never saw the movie.
1938: THE GREAT HURRICANE OF 1938 MAKES LANDFILL ON LONG ISLAND IN NEW YORK, KILLING 500-700 PEOPLE.
But that didn't necessarily piss them off as much. Because, after all, Pearl Harbor was not attacked by Massapequa.
1944: ACTRESS/AUTHOR FANNIE FLAGG IS BORN.
When she dies, will she be at half mast?
1950: ACTOR BILL MURRAY IS BORN.
Who ya gonna call?
1953: LT NO KUM-SOK, A NORTH KOREAN PILOT, DEFECTS TO SOUTH KOREA AND IS ASSOCIATED WITH OPERATION MOOLAH.
Mentioned only because of his name. And perhaps his association to a legendary lady wrestler.
1957: RADIO HOST MARK LEVIN IS BORN. He's always angry when there's a Democrat in the White House. Well, be prepared for more anger.
1964: MALTA BECOMES INDEPENDENT FROM THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Because people from Malta are a force to be reckoned with? 1968: TV STAR RICKI LAKE IS BORN. She was hot for about 26 seconds.
1971: BAHRAIN, BHUTAN, AND QATAR JOIN THE UNITED NATIONS.
Countries that are only important because they show up in crossword puzzles all the time.
1972: PHILIPPINE PRESIDENT FERDINAND MARCOS SIGNS PROCLAMATION NO. 1081 PLACING THE ENTIRE COUNTRY UNDER MARTIAL LAW.
You think he was ticked off this day? You should have been there the time he got his wife's credit statement from Payless Shoes.
1974: ACTOR WALTER BRENNAN DIES.
No foolin', he was the Real McCoy.
1974: AUTHOR JACQUELINE SUSANN DIES.
Once was more than enough.
1976: SEYCHELLES JOINS THE UNITED NATIONS.
She sells seychelles by the seashore. I guess they'll let anybody in.
1981: BELIZE IS GRANTED FULL INDEPENDENCE FROM THE UNITED KINGDOM.
Well, it worked out okay for Malta.
1981: SANDRA DAY O'CONNOR IS UNANIMOUSLY APPROVED BY THE U.S. SENATE AS THE FIRST FEMALE SUPREME COURT JUDGE.
Like I said. See above comment about Seychelles joining the U.N..
1989: HURRICANE HUGO MAKES LANDFALL IN SOUTH CAROLINA.
Destroying thousands of homes and amounting to about sixteen dollars worth of damage.
1998: ATHLETE FLORENCE GRIFFITH JOYNER DIES.
The race is over.
2007: ACTRESS ALICE GHOSTLEY DIES.
Many people thought she was Paul Lynde's sister. She wasn't.
2007: TELEVISION PREACHER REX HUMBARD DIES.
Many people thought he was an idiot. He was. Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza at the Dodger game.
...think twice about giving this review. And, since you insisted, don't be surprised if it's not the glowing accolade you want. Or something like that. "Don't Think Twice" is a mess of a movie that has you expecting hilarity and then receiving large doses of bitterness and anger. I mean, it's all about these members of a NYC-based improv group. Think the Groundlings or Second City. Well, as soon as you watch the first five minutes, you know you are in trouble. Because you see this group on stage performing and they are woefully not funny. Now, I'm not sure that wasn't the design of film maker and co-star Mike Birbiglia. Maybe they're supposed to suck and that's part of the intent. But, since they are not even slightly amusing, that makes everything which follows totally unrealistic. You see, like in the Groundlings and Second City, improv actors like this are all gearing for the same thing. To get a job either performing or writing on that great Saturday sketch comedy show we all know and usually detest. Yes, SNL. In this film, it's called Weekend Live, but they do little to hide that it is SNL. There are guest hosts like Ben Stiller and Lena Dunham. The announcer sounds just like the late Don Pardo. And the show runner depicted is unmistakably an unflattering caricature of Lorne Michaels. I am guessing that Birbiglia has been spurned in real life by SNL because there's a lot of venom spewing here. Unbelievably, one member of the troupe gets an audition with SNL, I mean, Weekend Live and gets the job. This upsets the rest of the improv folks and they react with varying degrees of meanness and envy. In one respect, you can't blame them because Jack, as played unconvincingly by Keegan-Michael Key, is the worst of the bunch. Indeed, Key himself is also the worst actor of the bunch on the screen, so it's a double whammy. Jack gets the gig because of his wonderful Barack Obama impression and that certainly is a device that will render this film even more untimely and uninteresting come January 20, 2017. But, Jack achieves stardom and the rest of the movie is one big pity party whose invitation you wish got lost in the mail. The characters are so unsavory and unlikable that you actually wish the projectionist would play the film at double speed so you can get the hell out of there even sooner. But, at its core, it's the improv work you see them doing that totally upends the whole movie. How can you get invested in people trying to achieve show business stardom when they are just so plain untalented and...more specifically...unfunny? I will add that "Don't Think Twice" is yet another movie that has gotten some very positive critical notices. Plus there was laughter and even a little applause from the crowd I saw it with. Most of that audience appeared to be young actors. Hey, maybe you have to be closer to the subject matter to get it. But, one more time, I'd care a lot more about the members of an improv group if they could just...well...do good improv. Plus I'm just one of those people who thinks that actors are better when there is a writer behind them. Ahem. LEN'S RATING: One star. Dinner last night: Chopped kale salad with bacon and cherry tomatoes.
We know the kids have gone back to school because the buses tie up traffic every morning and afternoon. Ah, September. The Fall prospects were doubly ominous for me. Not only was I going back to school, but Sunday school at church was also kicking in. Jeez, can't a kid get a break? The photo above is one from my childhood church. St. Peter's Lutheran Church on 219th Street. It looks like something out of the Little Rascals. Since my family roots helped to build this church, I am thinking my dad was once in the same position as these urchins. I would be, too. Many years later. I do remember the pastor in the picture. By the time I was one of these tykes, the guy had the word "Emeritus" in his title and was about to have his first one-on-one with God himself. He had already turned over the reins of the place to another German, Pastor Hoeniger. But, one thing that did not change over the years? Sunday school classes like this one. This, indeed, may have been a confirmation class, judging by the way the boys are dressed. Time, however, did remove the bows from the hair of the girls I studied with. Mercifully. In the circle of life of our family, my dad would drive me to the same church for a similar Sunday school class. For an hour beginning at 9AM, he would sit in his car outside the church, reading up on Gasoline Alley and Moon Mullins in the funny papers. I was inside, learning how to recite the Apostle's Creed. And not exactly loving the experience. For us, Sunday School was one big room. Long rows of tables and, as you had birthdays, you moved from one table to the next like it was a Parker Brothers game. First, you were at the kindergarten table. Then, the first grade table. Then, the second grade table. As you progressed around the room, you noticed that there were less and less crayons as you grew up. At the kindergarten table, you colored some drawing of Noah loading animals on his arc. At the first grade table, you got to memorize the writing at the bottom of the page you just colored. "Noah loading animals on his arc." Done. By the second and third grade tables, you were starting to hear Bible stories. But, not the traditional ones. Instead, because we were kids and more likely to identify with somebody else our own age, there were books devoted to Jesus as a small boy. Going to temple. Helping out his father in the carpenter shop. Totally strange. Little Jesus as if he were the star of a situation comedy. "Leave It to Jesus." In retrospect, it was all absurd. But, back when, we bought it hook, line, and sinker. At the beginning of every Sunday School session, we all stood as one group. Kindergarteners right through to the sixth grade. And we recited prayers and sung hymns as led by the wife of the church council president. One such Sunday service had disastrous results for me, when a lack of breakfast made me faint face forward. It was very well timed. At the end of the Lord's Prayer. "Forever and ever...amen." Thud. For us kids, I guess this was a worship service. After all, we were not allowed upstairs to the main sanctuary. That was for the grownups. Downstairs, we had other life issues to grapple with. "Hmmm, should I make Jesus' robe blue or green?" The only time we got to go up to the big people's church was at Christmastime. The Sunday School annually put on a Yuletide pageant of carols and recitations. For this, my mother would make an in-person appearance. Which had been preceded by weeks and weeks of arduous rehearsals at home as she put me through my paces for whatever small contribution I was going to make to the show. Usually, the littlest kids had to memorize two or three lines of rhyming verse. She called it "saying my piece." For hours on end, I had to stand in the living room and recite it. Over and over and over and over and over. Laurence Olivier rehearsed "Hamlet" less. And the words I had to say were always silly. Crafted by that same wife of the church council president, our Christmas pieces seemed to have been lifted from Bazooka gum wrappers. "Tis the season, tis the reason, for glory to seize us, and love you, Baby Jesus." Or something like that. The afternoon pageant couldn't end soon for me. Mom would be beaming in the front row as if I was Lincoln on the battlefield at Gettysburg. Eventually, my Sunday School years ended with the natural progression. You moved to a Confirmation class with the Pastor. This was no small feat. Two hours every Saturday morning at church for two solid years. You didn't become a Lutheran easily those days. And that meant I was now going to a school seven mornings a week. Yes, a kid could not get a break around here. Dinner last night: Crispy honey shrimp at PF Chang's.
All aboard. Here's two versions of the opening. First is the standard.
And then this is what they used after star Bea Benaderet died.
Dinner last night: Bacon and cheddar frittata.
