We’re here, we’re soccer moms, get used to it: Gayby Baby ***

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on April 30, 2016)

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NEWS FLASH: Just like the Russians, same-sex parents love their children, too.

And…their daily lives are virtually indistinguishable from any other typical family!

The parents feed, clothe, nurture their kids, have jobs…some even attend churches!

The kids go to school, play, laugh, cry, dream about their future…like normal kids!

I know, I know…I was just as shocked (shocked!) as you to learn all of these things.

Of course, I’m being facetious; although the sad fact remains that in the 21st Century,  there are still those who would be shocked to learn life for kids in same-sex households is in fact, not tantamount to a forced “indoctrination” into some ungodly type of  “lifestyle”.

Australian filmmaker Maya Newell sets the record straight in Gayby Baby, her documentary portrait of four kids who are growing up in same-sex households. Actually, the director herself doesn’t set the record straight; she just aims her camera, and the kids tell the story (that is to say, tell us their stories). Out of the mouths of babes, and all that.

This was a smart move, because children don’t view the world as a political battleground. They haven’t lived on the planet long enough to formulate any specific agenda. Ask them a direct question, and you’ll usually get an unadulterated answer (unless it’s “Who ate the cookies?”). Naturally, they are all aware that having two moms (or two dads) is atypical from their schoolmates…but that’s not something that any of them seem to obsess over.

They are mostly concerned with…kid stuff. A 10 year-old is preoccupied with all things WWF (and earns a stern talking-to when a wrestling match with his younger sister gets a bit too rough). One dreams of being a pop star; we watch her prepare for her audition that could get her into a performing arts school (warning: this likely will not be the first, or the last time you’ll weather a preteen girl’s approximation of “Rolling in the Deep”). An 11 year-old boy who grew up a foster child struggles with literacy. Another 11 year-old boy is dealing with a crisis of faith, pondering surprisingly deep issues for one so young.

Newell’s observational, non-judgmental approach is reminiscent of Paul Almond’s 7 Up, a 1964 UK documentary profiling 7 year-olds from varied socioeconomic backgrounds, sharing their dreams and aspirations. 7 years later the same subjects appeared in 7 Plus Seven, with director Michael Apted taking over. Updates continued with 21 Up, 28 Up, 35 Up, 42 Up, 49 Up and 2013’s 56 Up (my review). Newell’s subjects here are equally unfiltered and forthcoming; they leave you wanting for a similar update down the road.

In fact, I became so absorbed in the universal everyday travails of these families that I forgot all about any political subtexts until a brief jostle at the very end of the film where Newell inserts footage of some of the kids participating in a pride parade with their parents. Even in this arguably pointed coda, there is no palpable sense of proselytizing. At the end of the day, the film is not about being gay, or straight. It’s about being human.

England swings like a pendulum do

By Dennis Hartley

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It was 50 years ago today (or thereabouts)…

(from USA Today)

This year, 400 since the death of Shakespeare and 90 since the birth of Elizabeth II, is also the 50th anniversary of Swinging London, a time and place that produced the British Invasion rock bands, Georgy Girl and Darling, Twiggy and The Shrimp and the miniskirt.

In the 1960s, London — epitome of everything hierarchical, traditional and stodgy — was the site of a revolution in music, fashion and design. Lords partied with bricklayers, rockers with gangsters. Anything seemed possible.

The scene was made famous by an April 1966 Time magazine cover story, titled “The city that swings.’’ It described a place where “ancient elegance and new opulence are all tangled up in a dazzling blur of op and pop.’’

[…]

The 50th anniversary of Swinging London is being marked at a Saatchi Gallery show of Stones memorabilia. Jimi Hendrix’ old flat (once Handel’s attic) has opened to tourists.This summer the Victoria & Albert Museum begins an exhibition, You Say You Want a Revolution?

Yeaahh, baby!

I’m a bit of an Anglophile; I particularly love the British music,  films  and TV shows of that era.  In fact, 1966 was a watershed year for British cinema: Alfie, After the Fox, The Deadly Affair,  Fahrenheit 451,  Funeral in Berlin,  Georgy Girl,  A Man For All Seasons, The Wrong Box, and of course, Antonioni’s Blow-Up. Here’s my favorite scene:

As for the most memorable UK TV show of ’66, 2 words: Emma Peel!

Image result for emma peelAnd lest we forget the fab UK music of ’66…here are my top picks:

https://youtu.be/TyZrK9meebo

https://youtu.be/2eAxCVTMJ-I

Now if you will excuse me,  it’s time for my tea and bickie. Cheers!

Shaker meets Quaker: Elvis & Nixon **1/2

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on April 23, 2016)

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While the line dividing politics from show-biz has always been tenuous, the White House meeting between Elvis Aaron Presley and Richard Milhous Nixon in 1970 remains one of the more surreal moments in United States presidential history. From Smithsonian.com:

Around noon, Elvis arrived at the White House with Schilling and bodyguard Sonny West, who’d just arrived from Memphis. Arrayed in a purple velvet suit with a huge gold belt buckle and amber sunglasses, Elvis came bearing a gift—a Colt .45 pistol mounted in a display case that Elvis had plucked off the wall of his Los Angeles mansion.

Which the Secret Service confiscated before Krogh escorted Elvis—without his entourage—to meet Nixon.

“When he first walked into the Oval Office, he seemed a little awe-struck,” Krogh recalls, “but he quickly warmed to the situation.”

While White House photographer Ollie Atkins snapped photographs, the president and the King shook hands. Then Elvis showed off his police badges.

Nixon’s famous taping system had not yet been installed, so the conversation wasn’t recorded. But Krogh took notes: “Presley indicated that he thought the Beatles had been a real force for anti-American spirit. The President then indicated that those who use drugs are also those in the vanguard of anti-American protest.”

“I’m on your side,” Elvis told Nixon, adding that he’d been studying the drug culture and Communist brainwashing. Then he asked the president for a badge from the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs.

“Can we get him a badge?” Nixon asked Krogh.

Krogh said he could, and Nixon ordered it done.

Elvis was ecstatic. “In a surprising, spontaneous gesture,” Krogh wrote, Elvis “put his left arm around the President and hugged him.”

I’ll bet you thought E was going to say, “Thank ya, sir…thankyahveramuch.” Amirite?

He very well may have, but since there is no verbatim transcript, it’s up for conjecture. Which brings us to Liza Johnson’s featherweight yet passably entertaining Elvis & Nixon.

Co-writers Joey Sagal (who, interestingly, played an Elvis-like character for the premiere run of Steve Martin’s play Picasso at the Lapin Agile), Hanala Sagal, and Cary Elwes frame their screenplay with the most oft-recounted anecdotal lore surrounding the meet, shored up by a fair amount of creative license. Of course, this device (nowadays referred to as “fan fiction”) is nothing new. There have been a number of such explorations done on both figures; at least one featuring them together (the 1997 TV film Elvis Meets Nixon).

What makes this romp eminently watchable are its two leads: Michael Shannon (as Elvis) and Kevin Spacey (as Nixon). While this is far from a career highlight for either, they both have the chops to rise above the uneven script and carry the day. It does take a bit of acclimation to accept the hulking Shannon as Elvis; but he is subtle enough as a character actor to convincingly transform himself into The King, despite the fact that has no physical resemblance to his real-life counterpart (neither does Spacey, for that matter, but he utilizes his gift for voice mimicry to really capture Nixon to a tee).

The film is  farcical in tone, but there are brief flashes of pathos. In a scene recalling De Niro’s “who am I?” dressing room soliloquy in Raging Bull, Shannon gazes into a mirror and laments about how disassociated he feels from “Elvis” the legend. It’s a genuinely touching moment. Spacey gets to flex his instrument in a monologue where he reflects to Elvis on their commonalities; how both men rose up from humble roots to achieve greatness (yes, I know…depends on how you define “greatness”).

It’s based on historical fact, but not don’t expect any new revelations. You may forget what you’ve just watched by the time you get back to your car, but political junkies will get some laughs. There are stretches where the film threatens to morph into a glorified SNL sketch, but at a short running time of 87 minutes, it’s over before you know it. If only I could say the same for the 2016 election…

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This is what it sounds like

By Dennis Hartley

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RIP Prince 1958-2016

Do I believe in God, do I believe in me?

Some people want to die so they can be free

I said life is just a game, we’re all just the same

Do you want to play?

2016…the year the music died. Or at least it’s starting to feel that way. It’s all too much.

What can you say about Prince Rogers Nelson? If anyone could be labelled the “American David Bowie”, I’d wager this ever-evolving musical chameleon comes damn close. He was a true iconoclast. He was an amazingly gifted songwriter, vocalist and musician who could effortlessly segue from funk to rock, soul to psychedelia, R&B to jazz, hip-hop to techno…you name it. It’s as if he was created by a mad scientist who wanted to see what happens if you take DNA from Sly Stone, Paul McCartney, James Brown, Todd Rundgren, Jimi Hendrix, Stevie Wonder-and toss it all into a super collider.

His foray into cinema was more of a bumpy ride. Still, I have a soft spot for his semi-autobiographical 1984 vehicle, Purple Rain. While it is uneven from a narrative standpoint, the soundtrack is genius, a truly superlative song cycle in Prince’s canon. His 1986 “vanity project” Under the Cherry Moon, however, kind of put the kibosh on his acting career. It challenges Ishtar for title of Most Critically Drubbed Film of All Time. Still, its critics-to-audience score ratio on Rotten Tomatoes tells an interesting story. Only 25% of the critics “liked” it…but the audience score is 69%. As one critic wrote: “Strictly for Prince fans — but then again I am one.” Ditto. Obviously, he struck a chord.

(*sigh*) It’s getting crowded up there. Now George can thank him for this heartfelt solo:

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince.

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

###

UPDATE:                                                                                                                             Wow. On CNN tonight, even Stevie Wonder was at a loss for words:

(from Newsmax)

Stevie Wonder Thursday described Prince as “a great musician, a great producer, great song writer” — and was nearly overcome with emotion when asked to perform something that reminded him of the music icon who died at age 57.

“I think I would probably break down if I do a song right now,” Wonder told Anderson Cooper on CNN in during an interview from his Los Angeles home.

Prince, who was pronounced dead after collapsing in his Minnesota home, once described Wonder, 65, as a role model and an inspiration. “He was incredible,” Wonder told Cooper. “I’m just glad I was able to say to him I love you the last time I saw him.”

The performers had appeared together on several occasions, including the BET Awards in 2006 and in Paris four years later.

“The times we did jam together were amazing,” Wonder said.

He described Prince as “someone who allowed himself to be himself and encouraged others to be themselves.

“He was very free — and to do what he did without fear was a wonderful thing because it’s always great. It is always great when we don’t allow fear to put our dreams to sleep — and he didn’t.”

Wonder cited 1984’s “Purple Rain” as his favorite — “the whole album was incredible” — adding that Prince “was able to mix the blessing of life of God and, yet, the marriage of sex and passion.

He had fun doing it,” Wonder said. “It is rare for me that I can feel with every single breath how he just passionately loved music.”

Rocky mountain no way

By Dennis Hartley

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Thank god he caught it in time:

(from Rolling Stone)

Joe Walsh will not be performing at a July 18th concert he was initially scheduled to perform in Cleveland, OH. In a statement he released on Wednesday, Walsh said the event was billed to him as a benefit for the families of veterans, but after he discovered it was part of the Republican National Convention, he made the announcement that he is withdrawing from the show.

“It was my understanding that I was playing a concert which was a nonpartisan event to benefit the families of American veterans on Monday, July 18 in Cleveland. The admat I approved said this specifically,” the singer said in the statement. “Today it was announced that this event is, in fact, a launch for the Republican National Convention.”

[…]

“I am very concerned about the rampant vitriol, fear-mongering and bullying coming from the current Republican campaigns,” he continued. “It is both isolationist and spiteful. I cannot in good conscience endorse the Republican party in any way. I will look at doing a veteran related benefit concert later this year.”

As some guy who somehow ended up in the White House once said, “Fool me once, shame on…shame on you. Fool me…you can’t get fooled again.” Or something to that effect. Anyway…way to go, Joe!

Sketches of pain: Born to Be Blue ***

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on April 16, 2016)

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My pebble on the beach is gettin’ washed away                                                       I’ve given everything that was mine to give                                                              And now I’ll turn around and find                                                                               That there’s no time to live

-from “No Time to Live” by Traffic (Winwood/Capaldi)

The life of horn player/vocalist Chet Baker is a tragedian’s dream; a classic tale of a talented artist who peaked early, then promptly set about self-destructing. Sort of the Montgomery Clift of jazz, he was graced by the gods with an otherworldly physical beauty and a gift for expressing his art. By age 24 he had already gigged with Stan Getz, Charlie Parker and Gerry Mulligan. He began chasing the dragon in the 1950s, leading to jail time and a career slide. There are conflicting versions of the circumstances that led to a brutal beating in 1968, but the resultant injuries to his mouth impaired his playing abilities. While he never kicked the substance abuse, he eventually got his mojo back, and enjoyed a resurgence of his career in his final decade (he was only 58 when he died).

Baker has a mystique that has inspired filmmakers over the years. Jess Franco’s 1969 cult film Venus in Furs  (my review) was seeded by a  conversation the director once had with Baker (the protagonist is a haunted jazz trumpeter, who falls in love with a woman who may or may not exist). Bruce Weber’s beautifully photographed 1988 documentary Let’s Get Lost is a heartbreaking portrait of Baker toward the end of his life. Which brings us to writer-director Robert Budreau’s Born to Be Blue (limited release and pay-per-view).

Budreau’s film is a highly stylized “re-imagining” of the jazzman’s slow, painful professional comeback that followed in the wake of the beating that virtually destroyed his embouchure. In a super-meta opening scene, Chet (Ethan Hawke) is on a movie set, working out a scene for a biopic about himself, with his co-star Jane (Carmen Ejogo). An off camera romance ensues, with Jane pulling triple duty as lover, muse and drug counselor; trying to keep him off the junk as he struggles against the odds to regain his playing chops with a fractured jaw. Along the way, the couple takes a road trip to Chet’s boyhood home in Oklahoma, where he introduces Jane to his parents (Janet Laine-Green and Stephen McHattie) and feebly attempts to patch things up with his estranged father.

Jane isn’t the only person in Chet’s orbit who find themselves fulfilling a caretaker’s role; his long-time manager (Callum Keith Rennie), musical mentor Dizzy Gillespie (Kevin Hanchard), and his parole officer (Tony Nappo), continue to prop him up, against their better judgement (you know what they say: “Never trust a junkie.”). How much of this aspect of Baker’s life is being “re-imagined” here is up for debate; but it’s interesting to observe that in Weber’s 1988 documentary, even Baker himself admits (in so many words) that he knew he was a natural-born charmer, and he was never afraid to exploit it.

While the “junkie/alcoholic (musician, artist, writer, or poet) with God-given talent and a maddening gift for self-destruction” narrative is a cliché, Budreau’s film is bolstered by a very strong performance from Hawke; it’s an immersive portrayal that ranks among his best. Supporting performances are excellent as well. Overall, the film is moody, highly atmospheric, and evocative of the time period, with striking cinematography (by Steve Cosens). The dearth of original Baker music is glaring (copyright issues?), but Kevin Turcotte’s faux-Chet trumpet provides a reasonable facsimile thereof. Hawke does his own singing; very convincingly capturing Chet Baker’s essence (if not his exact tonality).

The riff rustlers

By Dennis Hartley

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Forget O.J. Simpson. This will surely be the new Trial of the Century:

(from NPR)

A jury trial is now set for a lawsuit that says members of Led Zeppelin plagiarized a key element of the best-selling song “Stairway to Heaven.” The estate of Randy Wolfe, the late guitarist of the band Spirit, initially filed the federal lawsuit two years ago.

On Friday, U.S District Judge R. Gary Klausner ruled that there’s enough evidence to move ahead with a trial to decide whether Led Zeppelin and guitarist Jimmy Page unfairly appropriated the guitar line from the Spirit song “Taurus,” which Wolfe — performing as Randy California — wrote years before “Stairway to Heaven” was released in 1971.

The lawsuit was filed with a Philadelphia court back in 2014, the same year Led Zeppelin released a newly remastered version of “Stairway to Heaven.” A year later, the venue was changed to California, to the same court that recently ruled in favor of the estate of Marvin Gaye in its copyright infringement lawsuit over the 2013 hit “Blurred Lines,” by Pharrell Williams and Robin Thicke.

Among the claims in the lawsuit against Led Zeppelin: that the band perpetrated a “falsification of Rock n’ Roll History.” In his order, Klausner finds that claim “inventive—yet legally baseless,” saying that he diligently sought out anything that might support the theory.

Klausner also removed Led Zeppelin bassist John Paul Jones from the suit, along with music publishers Super Hype and Warmer Music. That leaves Robert Plant and Jimmy Page as the leading defendants in the case.

Pagey and Percy, rockin’ the docket?  Talk about a witch hunt…

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Live from Jimmy’s house

That’s the story of rock ‘n’ roll, man…stealing riffs! After all, there’s only 7 major chords. Look at how many classic songs Buddy Holly was able to write using just three of them (A, E, & D). And even Buddy did a little creative “borrowing”, way back in the 1950s:

https://youtu.be/AyTtFNGzFsE

…sounds awfully close to an earlier Bo Diddley song:

…which was hijacked again over 30 years later, by George Michael:

Another classic example…starting with Neil Diamond in 1967:

…which obviously influenced:

…and re-emerged later as:

Perhaps this is all best summed up by one of my favorite 70s bands:

So endeth the lesson.

The empress has no pitch: Marguerite ***

By Dennis Hartley

(Originally posted on Digby’s Hullabaloo on April 9, 2016)

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It’s been said that many who fancy themselves singers can’t “hear” their own true voice (ever been to a Karaoke bar?). Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder; but in the ears, not so much. Off key is off key, and unfortunately for wealthy arts patron Marguerite Dumont (Catherine Frot) this is Paris in the 20s, and Auto-Tune is many decades hence.

Her heart is in the right place, though. In fact music is her driving passion, and in the opening of writer-director Xavier Giannoli’s eponymous drama, we witness a gathering of aristocrats (and a few party-crashers) that has converged on Marguerite’s sprawling estate for a charity fundraiser. Marguerite has invited a number of accomplished musicians to perform. The biggest buzz surrounds the headliner-Marguerite herself, who has prepared one of her favorite Soprano pieces to regale her guests with. However, she’s holding off until her husband Georges (Andre Marcon) arrives; it seems he has car issues.

It turns out that Georges has frequent trouble with the car; weirdly enough this occurs every time Marguerite gives a recital at their home (although the significance of this “coincidence” has never occurred to the unflappably enthusiastic Marguerite). As the guests are getting impatient, the show must go on…and so Marguerite takes center stage.

When Marguerite begins to sing, erm, how can I put this politely…well, let’s just say she is no Edith Piaf. OK, full disclosure: Her caterwauling could decalcify your spinal column at 100 paces. She’s godawful. But…she’s so enthusiastically godawful that she is at once oddly endearing. We assume this, because nobody has ever told her how utterly horrifying her singing is; neither her guests (who in fact give her a standing O) nor her longtime butler (Denis Mpunga), nor husband (aside from those “problems” with the car).

Two of the “party-crashers” I referred to earlier are an ambitious young journalist and his pal, an avant-garde provocateur, who are intrigued by the inexplicably sycophantic cocoon of “admirers” that enables Marguerite to remain cheerfully oblivious to her atonal warbling. Do they do this out of kindness? Or are they being ironic? Perhaps there’s something the young men are “missing”? The pair decides to conduct a sort of social experiment. If they can coax Marguerite out of her hermetic bubble, into a real public performance, she might prove to be a true phenomenon. Stranger things have happened.

What ensues is a sometimes uneasy cross between The Producers and The Dinner Game. The saving grace is Frot’s brave and moving performance; she’s sweet, funny and heartbreaking all at once. Michel Fau is another standout as a fading opera singer who is reluctantly recruited into playing Henry Higgins to Marguerite’s Eliza Doolittle (his characterization also recalls the exasperated singing coach who is hired to tutor Orson Welles’ tone-deaf wife in Citizen Kane). While there are many amusing moments, this is not a lighthearted romp; the odious, uniquely human capacity to cruelly exploit others for personal gain is on full display. Then again, you know what they say: “That’s show biz!