Happy birthday, Jimmy Piersall. Back in his day, he was considered insane. Now he'd be a broadcaster on Fox. 1533: CONQUISTADORS FROM SPAIN UNDER THE LEADERSHIP OF FRANCISCO PIZZARO ARRIVE IN CAJAMARCA. Francisco Pizzaro? Wasn't he a lefthander with the Chicago White Sox? 1770: JAMES BRUCE DISCOVERS WHAT HE BELIEVES TO BE THE SOURCE OF THE NILE. Turns out it was a leak underneath his bathroom sink. 1862: PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN APPROVES GENERAL AMBROSE BURNSIDE'S PLAN TO CAPTURE THE CONFEDERATE CAPITAL AT RICHMOND, VIRGINIA. And whatever Abe says, goes. 1889: FEMALE JOURNALIST NELLIE BEGINS A SUCCESSFUL ATTEMPT TO TRAVEL AROUND THE WORLD IN LESS THAN 80 DAYS. SHE COMPLETES THE TRIP IN 72 DAYS. And misses a chance to be in a movie with David Niven and Cantinflas. 1889: INDIAN PRIME MINISTER JAWAHARIAL NEHRU IS BORN. Wardrober to Sammy Davis Jr. 1896: FIRST LADY MAMIE EISENHOWER IS BORN. And probably looked old in the crib. 1904: ACTOR DICK POWELL IS BORN. Probably was smoking in his crib. 1908: SENATOR JOSEPH MCCARTHY IS BORN. Should have died in his crib. 1910: AVAITOR EUGENE BLY PREFORMS THE FIRST TAKE OFF FROM A SHIP IN VIRGINIA. Those Blys are crafty. 1915: ACTIVIST BOOKER T. WASHINGTON DIES. And that makes for some sad MGs. 1916: TV PRODUCER SHERWOOD SCHWARTZ IS BORN. Creator of the two crappiest TV shows in history. 1918: CZECHOSLOVAKIA BECOMES A REPUBLIC. Czech, please. 1921: THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF SPAIN IS FOUNDED. So that explains why the cape they wave in front of the bull is red. 1921: ACTOR BRIAN KEITH IS BORN. Uncle Bill! 1922: THE BBC BEGINS RADIO SERVICE IN THE UNITED KINGDOM. Their first show? Lord Amos and Duke Andy. 1927: ACTOR MCLEAN STEVENSON IS BORN. Hello, Larry. 1929: BASEBALL PLAYER JIMMY PIERSALL IS BORN. When he was on the Mets, he hit his 100th homerun and ran the bases backwards. Since it was the Mets, nobody noticed. 1940: IN ENGLAND, THE CITY OF COVENTRY IS HEAVILY BOMBED BY GERMAN LUFTWAFFE BOMBERS. Show of hands, please, for those of you who have also been heavily bombed. 1957: THE APALACHIN MEETING IN BINGHAMTON, NEW YORK, IS RAIDED AND MANY HIGH LEVEL MAFIA FIGURES ARE ARRESTED. Sounds like an episode of the Sopranos from Season 3. 1969: NASA LAUNCHES APOLLO 12, THE SECOND MANNED MISSION TO THE MOON. Nobody remembers who was on this one. 1979: US PRESIDENT JIMMY CARTER ISSUES EXECUTIVE ORDER 12170, FREEZING ALL IRANIAN ASSETS IN RESPONSE TO THE HOSTAGE CRISIS. Yeah, he was really on top of this situation. 1982: LECH WALESA, THE LEADER OF POLAND'S SOLIDARITY MOVEMENT, IS RELEASED AFTER ELEVEN MONTHS OF INTERNMENT. For 11 years, there was a lot Less Walesa. 1991: IN ROYAL OAK, MICHIGAN, A FIRED US POSTAL SERVICE EMPLOYEE GOES ON A SHOOTING RAMPAGE, KILLING FOUR AND WOUNDING FIVE. Do you need that certified? 1997: JOCKEY EDDIE ARCARO DIES. Finishing out of the money. 2000: JOURNALIST ROBERT TROUT DIES. Trout out of the water and into the ground. 2002: ACTOR EDDIE BRACKEN DIES. It was all downhill after Preston Sturges died anyway. Dinner last night: Leftover London broil and vegetables.
A few weeks back, the Aero Theater in Santa Monica ran a Ron Howard retrospective and the director was there every night for a Q and A. I went the evening they ran the spectacular "Apollo 13" which should have won a Best Picture Oscar and a Best Director award for Ron. I was astounded all over again by the amazing work he did with this true story, brilliantly meshing the personal stories with the real event. I bring all that up in this review of "First Man," because director Damien Chazelle performs just the opposite task that Ron completed. Chazelle, unfortunately, misses all the cues on blending this true story with personal strife. As a result, "First Man" turns out to be as underwhelming as your grandma's souffle which never rose. This is sad to me on several counts. First off, as a kid who remembers the first moon landing with much awe and reverence, I really wanted this movie to be good. I wanted it to be the best film of the year. I wanted it to win Oscars. Instead, the award I give it is "Largest Disappointment of 2018." I clearly didn't expect this. I had high hopes largely because the director was Damien Chazelle, whose work in "Whiplash" and "La La Land" was so luminous. Indeed, we have found a film genre this wunderkind doesn't excel in, even with executive producer Steven Spielberg's name firmly attached. "First Man" wants to tell the tale of astronaut Neil Armstrong, the man whose one small step made history and essentially won the space race for the US. But director Chazelle can't pick a focus and stay with it. For a while, it's about the marital strife between Armstrong and his wife (played with an American accent by Claire Foy of "The Crown") over the death of their daughter. Then it's about the dangers of going to outer space, given the loss of a couple of astronauts in a fire. Then it's about the race for space itself. As a result of this cinematic meandering, "First Man" looks wholly hollow, if that makes sense. You get pulled in way too many directions. Making matters worse, Chazelle depicts Mrs. Armstrong as a bitter wife and quite unlikable. When I came home, I checked on-line and discovered the real Mrs. Armstrong died a few months before the film came out. Lucky her. The only area in which Chazelle does succeed is his sensory depiction of flying into outer space and then walking on the moon. He provides you with a bit of a theme park ride that can be exhilarating. But you can also get that on a ride at Disneyland, too. By the way, there was a lot of publicity when it was announced that "First Man" doesn't make a big deal of planting the American flag on the moon. Yes, there is no scene. But the flag is clearly visible in several shots, so there. I know Ron Howard doesn't want to become the official NASA director in Hollywood. But I really would have liked to see what his take would have been on the first moon landing. It could only be an improvement when compared to "First Man." LEN'S RATING: Two stars. Dinner last night: Sausage, onions, and tomatoes.
Today is technically Veteran's Day. November 11. But I am guessing the federal government is recognizing it tomorrow for a three-day weekend. If they are recognizing it at all. But I'm a traditionalist and honoring the vets today the way they should be. Many of us come from the generation that endured World War II and even served in its battles. You may have had a father who did so bravely and later had stories to tell.
So did I. And here's a photo of my dad in his Army uniform.
Truth be told, though, my father didn't have a plethora of heroic tales to share. He did go overseas, yes. To Japan where he apparently complained about the food. But, major action? Er, no. He worked in an office and his mightiest struggle may have been with a pesky typewriter ribbon.
My dad's family was a microcosm of America during the 40s and the homefront years. My grandparents had four sons and all of them served in WWII. The oldest son, Augie, was in the Army and had some involvement with the D-Day invasion of the beach at Normandy. My namesake was also in the Army and didn't make it back. He was killed in the south of France about two weeks before V-E Day. I believe Fritz was in the Navy, since I recall a photo of him with one of those Navy berets.
My dad was the youngest of the four and wound up as far from action. The only weapon he had to worry about was likely a pair of chopsticks. He didn't really ever said much about the experience, except that he hated the food. Because, as was the case with this generation, they didn't mention anything.
Once again, if you wanted to find out about the past lives of your parents, you had to ask very specific and appropriate questions. And, if you were extremely lucky, you got an answer. Or, as was usually the case, you got bounced to the other parent who would immediately deflect you back to the first parent. Suddenly, you weren't their child. You were a ping pong ball.
Now I saw all these military headshots strewn around my family's walls and shelves. I was curious. I had always had a romantic attraction to the American homefront years, which was probably the last time this country was completely unified. I wanted to learn all about it. And I had all these first-hand witnesses, right?
I figured I would start small. I'd ask my dad the most innocent of questions and then ramp up from there. We were riding in the car one day to the super market and I dove in with both feet.
"So did Mom write to you a lot when you were in the Army during the war?"
Fairly mild and only slightly invasive, I thought. But the look on my father's face made it seem like I had kicked him in the groin.
"What kind of stupid question is that??"
Ummm....
Dad paused for an eternity of ten seconds or so. And then he offered up a morsel.
"I wasn't dating your mother. I was getting letters from Muriel."
Muriel? Like the cigar??
I asked the follow-up question and got the usual follow-up shutdown.
And this was one that I couldn't circle back to Mom for more information. Suppose she didn't know about Muriel, who I later discovered was a woman in our church and still around for all to see and behold. I didn't certainly want to start World War III in my own household. So, I did exactly what all the adults in my family were very, very good at.
I kept it all to myself.
Nobody talked about those war years and, of course, Grandma was particularly close-mouthed about it all. She had lost a son. For years, I didn't know what that purple medal was that hung in her living room. I later discovered its significance. But that was a subject you didn't go into. All the stories about my uncle with the same name as mine seemed to stop with 1944.
Years later, my dad announced that he would give me a metal strong box that contained a lot of memorabilia about our family's loss in the war. I found a yellowed and withered letter from the War Department that detailed the exact burial site for him. It was in the south of France. What was the reason why they didn't bring him home to the states for his final resting place? Why?
In this case, my father was as clueless as I was.
"I don't know."
I noticed that the letter or wire announcing his death was not amongst the snippets of a military life in that box. What happened to that? My father knew.
"It went in the garbage."
Along with all the emotions that went with that devastating news.
Even though he didn't talk much about his Army tenure, I think my father was particularly proud of it, even though the only weapon he touched might have been a desk stapler. He displayed his pride by taking me to every military movie that came out in the 60s.
"The Longest Day."
"The Guns of Navarone."
"The Bridge Over the River Kwai."
"The Train."
"Von Ryan's Express."
All seen with my father. While my mom handled all the Disney and biblical films, Dad was the exclusive conduit to Hollywood's various depictions of WWII. And, as good as every one of those movies were, he always had the same comment afterwards.
"I don't think it happened like that."
Oh, really, how do you know that? Tell me more. Please!
He never did.
There were only two times in my life that I actually saw my father cry. The first was when he came into the house from work after my grandfather had just died. But, the second time blew me away. It was sudden, spontaneous, and, the time, cannot be explained.
He had taken me out for a Sunday drive and, in a rare deviation from our typical route in the Bronx, we wound up motoring down the West Side Highway in Manhattan. Since Mom was nowhere in the vicinity, the car radio was tuned to my father's favorite, WNEW-AM. Suddenly, there was that ominous news bulletin alert. That was always scary in itself.
"GENERAL DOUGLAS MACARTHUR HAS DIED."
Who? I didn't know at the time. I was that young. But, I looked to my father and there were tears streaming down his face. I asked him what was wrong.
"My boss died."
His boss? I suddenly realized that, to someone who had been involved in the military during World War II, this man had tremendous importance. And apparently commanded eternal loyalty.
There was a pause of a minute or two. Dad wiped the tears from his eyes and then kept driving on.
In the usual silence. Dinner last night: Orange chicken.
Even when they change. See how I flipped that old bromide. Regular readers here will remember that, a long while back, my writing partner and I got to spend some very glorious time on the set of "Murphy Brown" in its pre-reboot days. So it was only natural that I would want to find my way back to the show now that it's been...what was the word?..."rebooted." Of course, these days find the so-called "11th season" of the show being shot not on Stage 4 at Warner Brothers in Burbank, but on 37th Street at the Kaufman Astoria Studios in Astoria, Queens, New York. So, on my trip to NYC last week, I managed to hoodwink a couple of VIP Production Guest tix (translation: you don't stand on line with the public) and took it all in. Indeed, unlike driving to a LA studio, I was warned there was only street parking in the neighborhood. So, I opted to take a Lyft there and back and the whole round trip came in at around 70 bucks. The audience entrance to the sound stage is situated on a narrow NY street with scaffolding and dingy apartments across the way. Unlike my first go-round with MB when there were no cell phones, you are given a little pouch that locks away your device for the duration of the filming. This explains why this blog entry is virtually photo-free, save for the picture of my ticket. For somebody who was on the original set, this quickly became deja vu all over again. Phil's Bar and Murphy's town house are replicated in great detail. The vibe of the pre-show was very much the way I remembered it, right down to the vintage Motown music being piped over the loud speakers. I don't care what anybody says but the energy that is given off by a sitcom shot in front of a live studio audience cannot be described. From this production format first invented by Desi Arnaz for "I Love Lucy," the really good situation comedies are all done this way. It gives a level of excitement to everybody involved from the actors to the studio audience to the viewers at home. And every time I am around this environment, I'm in awe all over again. For me, everything was just how I left it. The pre-show cast introductions. The process of shooting the same scene three times. The zany warm-up comic giving away Starbucks gift cards for prizes to those answering MB trivia questions. (Yes, I got one.) The curtain call. But something was a little different. There was some rewriting of scenes on the floor. Now I know that's a common practice with some shows, in particular those produced by Chuck Lorre. But this never happened with MB. Now there was one funny run done by Faith Ford. It is revealed in a short monologue that her character of Corky Sherwood has been carrying a gun since she was 12. A well done rant. But, for some bizarre reason, the writers felt compelled to change the words for the second take. Hmmm. Now this threw poor Faith a little bit and she slipped up on the words repeatedly much to her own embarrassment. Finally, for Take 3, show runner Diane English swooped in and changed the verbiage some more. This was grossly unfair to Faith Ford who was doing her darndest to deliver under tough circumstances, I am now curious to see which version airs and I will bet good money that it's the very first take. Rule of thumb: your first pass is usually the best. While, for the most part, everything at "Murphy Brown" was familiarly in the same spot where I left it, there is one overriding difference then to now. It's the subject matter. In 2018, there is a compelling need to make every single episode a teachable moment about what's going on in America today. This particular installment is all about mob mentality against the press. Indeed, one character winds up in the hospital after being beaten up at a Trump rally. Whatever your political vent, this does not qualify as comedy in my book. Oh, they walked the fine line between funny and serious in the script. But still? We've got enough problems in the world without having one of America's most original art forms, the multi-cam situation comedy, being used to drive nails into our foreheads. As I walked out into the Friday night rain last week, I was gratified to know that this terrific kind of energy can still exist on a sound stage and then your very own TV screen. I am glad to know that "Murphy Brown" is still the way it was. Sort of. Dinner last night: Salad bar.
