Recently it came to my attention that another servicman had been awarded a Medal of Honor for action in Afghanistan. In all likelihood, it was a well-deserved award. Fortunately, unlike the first seven that were awarded posthumously in for action in Iraq and Afghanistan, the recipient will be present in the White House in February.
The Medal of Honor has a long but sometimes tortured history. Congress in the early days of the award doled it out like penny candy. Sometimes, people who didn't deserve the award at all won it. There were even shameful instances where African- and Asian-American servicemen didn't have their applications processed our of racial bias. Since World War I, the attention given to the award has stiffened somewhat, resulting in less questionable and controversial awards. There have still been some mistakes, but by and large the awarding of this honor has been improved greatly.
Even so, the award to one recipient has always bothered me. Douglas MacArthur, the pompous, self-righteous, egomaniacal general with the long and checkered military career, was awarded a Medal of Honor early in World War II. Here's the language of the citation:
For conspicuous leadership in preparing the Philippine
Islands to resist conquest, for gallantry and intrepidity above and beyond the
call of duty in action against invading Japanese forces, and for the heroic
conduct of defensive and offensive operations on the Bataan Peninsula. He
mobilized, trained, and led an army which has received world acclaim for its
gallant defense against a tremendous superiority of enemy forces in men and
arms. His utter disregard of personal danger under heavy fire and aerial
bombardment, his calm judgment in each crisis, inspired his troops, galvanized
the spirit of resistance of the Filipino people, and confirmed the faith of the
American people in their Armed Forces.
There are a few problems with this. First and foremost, even though he'd been given advance warning of an attack in the Philippines, Dougie kept his bombers lined up in the airfields, not dispersing them to make aerial attack more difficult. His argument was that he feared guerrilla attack. The truth of the matter is he disdained the Asian soldier, despite the fact that the Japanese army had eight years of hard fighting under its belt by the time it attacked in late 1941.
Dougie also did nothing to prepare the islands against invasion. The honorable fight put up by US forces on the Bataan peninsula could have been even harder on the Japanese had Dougie made adequate preparations before they came. Supplies weren't distributed correctly. Force dispositions dissipated American strengths. It's unlikely that the Japanese could have been defeated; they had the advantage of superior interior lines. Even so, what MacArthur did was criminally neglectful and certainly not worthy of the Medal of Honor.
There's no question that Roosevelt gave MacArthur the Medal of Honor to instill pride in the United States people and to rally them around the cause. But in so doing, he devalued the award to those men who made the ultimate sacrifice. It was a shameful choice that only served to fuel MacArthur's ego that led to later miscalculations at Peliliu and Chosin needlessly costing brave men their lives and futures.
That MacArthur served his country is undeniable. But that he was given the nation's highest award for valor in combat is one of the worst decisions in the long history of the Medal of Honor.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Update on the Generals
I think it's time for an update on the Generals. The boys have been growing up admirably in some ways, not so admirably in others. Let's start with the bad first.
Custer has been feeling his oats. He's determined to wrest the position of Alpha Male from Sherman. There have been some knock-down, drag-out battles between them. Think bears fighting on their hind legs, with plenty of biting and swipes with their front paws, just on a smaller scale. I'm no lightweight, but I had to give up trying to separate them phyically. I've had to resort to the spritzer to get them apart. It's sad.
Sherman sleeps most of his days. But when I go out and come back, with his brothers squestered elsewhere (more of that anon), he gets animated and wrestles with me like back in the day. He's so smart that he knows we run no risks of Custer trying to impose his will on us since he's locked up. Today, for example, he and I played for a good ten minutes until he got winded.
Custer, for all his pretentions to the throne, is a bedwetter and a covert pooper. If I leave him out, the odds are even that I'll come home to a load deposited in a couple of select places in the family room. I've had to cordon off the living room to try and keep that safe. Once in awhile I'll bring the galoot down in the basement with me, but that engenders a host of other issues. On our way up the stairs, Cus thinks that it's play time. As I get to the landing, he jumps up on me as if to play. I push him down with my knee, but it's difficult, especially if I'm carrying something.
There are times when Stonewall is trying to play with him in his inimitable style, which entails grabbing onto Cus' jowls and pulling -- hard -- and I go after Stonewall to get him to stop it. Cus, not realizing I'm trying to protect him, thinks it's time to play and jumps on me. Again, that just makes everything more difficult.
But Custer's biggest surprise for us involved the fireplace. It was always my impression that animals feared fire. Not Custer. He's already demonstrated that he has no fear of the water, having jumped into Lake Michigan, but now he's quite comfortable sticking himself as close to the fireplace as possible. I have to block him off so I can build the fire in the first place, and if I go near it to stoke it, he comes to help me. Once the fire is roaring, he'll lie down in front of it with his snout inches from the safety grating. With his flatulence problem, Karen and I joke that if he ever lets one loose while in front of a fire, he'll incinerate us.
As fearless as he is of the elements, he's that scared by sound. Yesterday I clanged the dog bowls together and Custer ran with his powder-puff tail tucked in tightly.
Perhaps the funniest thing that Cus does is follow reflections. Karen's cousin Robert first discovered that Cus followed the light made by a flashlight. He'd twirl the light on the floor and Custer turned round and round chasing the light. The other night I was reading a book, unaware that the glossy book jacket reflected light from the lamp on the ceiling. As I turned the book in my hands, Custer would chase the light on the ceiling.
Stonewall is now taller than his brothers, but he's not filling out. Karen says he's a lower grade bulldog. He's very energetic and fast as a whippet, but he's slowly learning how to behave. He still piddles when my back is turned. But now he and I roughhouse the way I do with his older brothers, and he's catching on as to how hard he can bite my hands. He's every bit as affectionate as he always was, and he is beginning to understand that he's the lowest man on the totem pole.
The funny thing is when we're watching television and a dog barks in a scene on a show. Both Stoney and Cus go nuts looking for the dog. Stoney barks, Cus mewls. When the doorbell rings in a scene, the three of them run to the front door.
It makes me sad when people are cruel to pets. I can understand putting down a rabid dog or a violent animal, but when the harmless and reliant pets have done nothing, being subjected to man's inhumanity is unforgivable. Were anyone to hurt one of our boys, I'd lose my mind.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Custer has been feeling his oats. He's determined to wrest the position of Alpha Male from Sherman. There have been some knock-down, drag-out battles between them. Think bears fighting on their hind legs, with plenty of biting and swipes with their front paws, just on a smaller scale. I'm no lightweight, but I had to give up trying to separate them phyically. I've had to resort to the spritzer to get them apart. It's sad.
Sherman sleeps most of his days. But when I go out and come back, with his brothers squestered elsewhere (more of that anon), he gets animated and wrestles with me like back in the day. He's so smart that he knows we run no risks of Custer trying to impose his will on us since he's locked up. Today, for example, he and I played for a good ten minutes until he got winded.
Custer, for all his pretentions to the throne, is a bedwetter and a covert pooper. If I leave him out, the odds are even that I'll come home to a load deposited in a couple of select places in the family room. I've had to cordon off the living room to try and keep that safe. Once in awhile I'll bring the galoot down in the basement with me, but that engenders a host of other issues. On our way up the stairs, Cus thinks that it's play time. As I get to the landing, he jumps up on me as if to play. I push him down with my knee, but it's difficult, especially if I'm carrying something.
There are times when Stonewall is trying to play with him in his inimitable style, which entails grabbing onto Cus' jowls and pulling -- hard -- and I go after Stonewall to get him to stop it. Cus, not realizing I'm trying to protect him, thinks it's time to play and jumps on me. Again, that just makes everything more difficult.
But Custer's biggest surprise for us involved the fireplace. It was always my impression that animals feared fire. Not Custer. He's already demonstrated that he has no fear of the water, having jumped into Lake Michigan, but now he's quite comfortable sticking himself as close to the fireplace as possible. I have to block him off so I can build the fire in the first place, and if I go near it to stoke it, he comes to help me. Once the fire is roaring, he'll lie down in front of it with his snout inches from the safety grating. With his flatulence problem, Karen and I joke that if he ever lets one loose while in front of a fire, he'll incinerate us.
As fearless as he is of the elements, he's that scared by sound. Yesterday I clanged the dog bowls together and Custer ran with his powder-puff tail tucked in tightly.
Perhaps the funniest thing that Cus does is follow reflections. Karen's cousin Robert first discovered that Cus followed the light made by a flashlight. He'd twirl the light on the floor and Custer turned round and round chasing the light. The other night I was reading a book, unaware that the glossy book jacket reflected light from the lamp on the ceiling. As I turned the book in my hands, Custer would chase the light on the ceiling.
Stonewall is now taller than his brothers, but he's not filling out. Karen says he's a lower grade bulldog. He's very energetic and fast as a whippet, but he's slowly learning how to behave. He still piddles when my back is turned. But now he and I roughhouse the way I do with his older brothers, and he's catching on as to how hard he can bite my hands. He's every bit as affectionate as he always was, and he is beginning to understand that he's the lowest man on the totem pole.
The funny thing is when we're watching television and a dog barks in a scene on a show. Both Stoney and Cus go nuts looking for the dog. Stoney barks, Cus mewls. When the doorbell rings in a scene, the three of them run to the front door.
It makes me sad when people are cruel to pets. I can understand putting down a rabid dog or a violent animal, but when the harmless and reliant pets have done nothing, being subjected to man's inhumanity is unforgivable. Were anyone to hurt one of our boys, I'd lose my mind.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Race and sports
I used to play baseball and basketball. I wasn't too bad in either sport. Arguably, I could have been a pro in baseball with a lot of things breaking right for me, but high school politics got in the way. In basketball, there was no way I was going to get a Division I scholarship, much less make the pros. I didn't have the athletic body needed to compete at that level.
My high school days were the late 70's. I played intramural ball in college in the early 80's. I played mostly against white players but also more and more black players as opportunities opened up for blacks. Some were very, very good, some just thought they were. There was, however, one theme that persisted in blacks' play: Most of them, if not all of them, were athletically better than ninety-percent of the white players out there.
This is not a complaint about blacks getting more playing time on college teams. It isn't a complaint at all. But for years, I've been fascinated by one issue related to blacks' athletic abilities. I concede at the outset that many of them work harder at their chosen sport than do whites. That may be the result of several different factors. That they succeed to the point that eighty- to ninety-percent of the NBA is black is fine with me.
What I can't fathom, however, are the freaks of nature that come in black bodies. I'm not referring to Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, Michael Jordan, Earvin Johnson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or any of the genetically-gifted players who combine height and athletic ability. I'm referring to people like Spud Webb and William Perry.
Spud Webb, for those who don't know or remember, maxed out at 5'7" tall. That he made the NBA is of no consequence. That he won the Slam Dunk competition at the All Star game festivities would be of no consequence either, except for his notorious lack of height. How can someone so short dunk as well as he did? How can someone so short jump that high?
He's not the only one at that height, either. Nate Robinson measures 5'9" tall and did the same thing as Spud Webb did. How many white or Latino guys could do this? Did these guys just practice long enough to be able to do this, or is there some physical explanation for it?
Were it only guys on the shorter end of the scale, we might write it off as a genetic anomaly, but then there's William Perry. Perry was taller than Webb and Robinson, coming out at 6'2". But he weighed over three hundred pounds. I saw video of him dunking a basketball. I've seen video of him dunking a football over the goalpost wearing all his football gear. How is it possible for someone that heavy to get up that high? As with Webb and Robinson, the same questions nag: How many white or Latino guys could do this? Did these guys just practice long enough to be able to do this, or is there some physical explanation for it?
I've heard that there is some physiognomic (if that's the right word) explanation for the difference between black bodies and white bodies, something to do with fast-twitch muscles and slow-twitch muscles. There has long been talk about blacks' bones being heavier as explanation for why blacks don't succeed as swimmers. I don't know if any of that is correct or not. But I wonder how guys like Webb, Robinson and Perry are able to perform those feats with the physical limitations they possess.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
My high school days were the late 70's. I played intramural ball in college in the early 80's. I played mostly against white players but also more and more black players as opportunities opened up for blacks. Some were very, very good, some just thought they were. There was, however, one theme that persisted in blacks' play: Most of them, if not all of them, were athletically better than ninety-percent of the white players out there.
This is not a complaint about blacks getting more playing time on college teams. It isn't a complaint at all. But for years, I've been fascinated by one issue related to blacks' athletic abilities. I concede at the outset that many of them work harder at their chosen sport than do whites. That may be the result of several different factors. That they succeed to the point that eighty- to ninety-percent of the NBA is black is fine with me.
What I can't fathom, however, are the freaks of nature that come in black bodies. I'm not referring to Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant, Michael Jordan, Earvin Johnson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or any of the genetically-gifted players who combine height and athletic ability. I'm referring to people like Spud Webb and William Perry.
Spud Webb, for those who don't know or remember, maxed out at 5'7" tall. That he made the NBA is of no consequence. That he won the Slam Dunk competition at the All Star game festivities would be of no consequence either, except for his notorious lack of height. How can someone so short dunk as well as he did? How can someone so short jump that high?
He's not the only one at that height, either. Nate Robinson measures 5'9" tall and did the same thing as Spud Webb did. How many white or Latino guys could do this? Did these guys just practice long enough to be able to do this, or is there some physical explanation for it?
Were it only guys on the shorter end of the scale, we might write it off as a genetic anomaly, but then there's William Perry. Perry was taller than Webb and Robinson, coming out at 6'2". But he weighed over three hundred pounds. I saw video of him dunking a basketball. I've seen video of him dunking a football over the goalpost wearing all his football gear. How is it possible for someone that heavy to get up that high? As with Webb and Robinson, the same questions nag: How many white or Latino guys could do this? Did these guys just practice long enough to be able to do this, or is there some physical explanation for it?
I've heard that there is some physiognomic (if that's the right word) explanation for the difference between black bodies and white bodies, something to do with fast-twitch muscles and slow-twitch muscles. There has long been talk about blacks' bones being heavier as explanation for why blacks don't succeed as swimmers. I don't know if any of that is correct or not. But I wonder how guys like Webb, Robinson and Perry are able to perform those feats with the physical limitations they possess.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Confusing actors
I enjoy war movies. I've probably seen every one of them, and I can't wait to see Dark Zero Thirty this weekend.
A few years ago, The Thin Red Line was all the rage. Terrance Malick is some sort of savant director who has made very artsy movies that Hollywood types love. He may have; I'm unaware. I just cared that another World War II movie was made and I was anxious to see it.
Well, I was a little underwhelmed in that there wasn't as much action as I'd have liked. John Travolta's character came off as gay. The cinematography was wonderful, though, so there was that. Since I never read James Jones's novel, I can't say whether it was a faithful adaptation. Aside from all the stars in the movie, there was one thing that distracted the heck out of me.
Before this movie came out, I don't think I knew who James Caviezel, Elias Koteas, Adrian Brody and Ben Chaplin were. All of them are fine actors, one of them proving as much with an best actor Oscar (Brody). My problem was that I couldn't keep the actors and their characters straight because they all resembled, to my eye, each other enough that I got confused by who was who. I spent every scene in which one or more of them appeared trying to figure out what their roles were in the plot.
Well, I have another such issue, but it's not with a single movie. For some reason, I can't keep Toby Maguire, Lukas Haas and Elijah Wood straight. I saw Haas for the first time in one of my favorite movies, Witness, but he was a child in that movie. Since he's grown up, I've lost track of him, and then every once in awhile, he pops up in a movie and I have to try and remember his name. Maguire I've seen in some things, although I've never watched one of the Spiderman movies, so when I see him in something, all I know is that he was Spiderman...but I can't remember his name. Wood was in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, but beyond that, I easily confuse him with Maguire.
Ordinarily, I'm pretty good remembering faces and names. For some reason, when these guys are in movies, I get confused. I've long since straightened out Caviezel, Koteas, Brody and Chaplin. I even saw Koteas at a party one Thanksgiving, so that helped. Caviezel, of course, played Christ. Brody kissed Hallie Berry and Chaplin's a Brit.
I hope that with time I'll get Haas, Maguire and Wood correct. In the meantime, it's going to bother me every time I see one of them in a movie.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
A few years ago, The Thin Red Line was all the rage. Terrance Malick is some sort of savant director who has made very artsy movies that Hollywood types love. He may have; I'm unaware. I just cared that another World War II movie was made and I was anxious to see it.
Well, I was a little underwhelmed in that there wasn't as much action as I'd have liked. John Travolta's character came off as gay. The cinematography was wonderful, though, so there was that. Since I never read James Jones's novel, I can't say whether it was a faithful adaptation. Aside from all the stars in the movie, there was one thing that distracted the heck out of me.
Before this movie came out, I don't think I knew who James Caviezel, Elias Koteas, Adrian Brody and Ben Chaplin were. All of them are fine actors, one of them proving as much with an best actor Oscar (Brody). My problem was that I couldn't keep the actors and their characters straight because they all resembled, to my eye, each other enough that I got confused by who was who. I spent every scene in which one or more of them appeared trying to figure out what their roles were in the plot.
Well, I have another such issue, but it's not with a single movie. For some reason, I can't keep Toby Maguire, Lukas Haas and Elijah Wood straight. I saw Haas for the first time in one of my favorite movies, Witness, but he was a child in that movie. Since he's grown up, I've lost track of him, and then every once in awhile, he pops up in a movie and I have to try and remember his name. Maguire I've seen in some things, although I've never watched one of the Spiderman movies, so when I see him in something, all I know is that he was Spiderman...but I can't remember his name. Wood was in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, but beyond that, I easily confuse him with Maguire.
Ordinarily, I'm pretty good remembering faces and names. For some reason, when these guys are in movies, I get confused. I've long since straightened out Caviezel, Koteas, Brody and Chaplin. I even saw Koteas at a party one Thanksgiving, so that helped. Caviezel, of course, played Christ. Brody kissed Hallie Berry and Chaplin's a Brit.
I hope that with time I'll get Haas, Maguire and Wood correct. In the meantime, it's going to bother me every time I see one of them in a movie.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, January 7, 2013
Timely sayings
Everyone, presumably, has those times he's in a moment and there's a perfect comeback or riposte that just doesn't occur to him until that moment has passed. Some people are able to do it right away. Others never get it. Then there are those of us who have those few, shining moments that we remember forever.
The comments don't have to be incisive or particularly humorous. They just have to be well-timed and somewhat amusing. At least, that's my standard.
My alma mater has school colors of blue and orange. For whatever moronic reason, it's chosen orange as the predominant color. I don't like orange at all. But I'm also Irish (lapsed) Catholic. One time, a buddy of mine was telling me how I should wear an orange sweatshirt to show my school pride at a sporting event. I told him that just wasn't going to happen, and he continued to chide me.
"Jim," I said, "Irish Catholics don't wear orange."
Point, me.
Older brothers are supposed to torment their sisters. It's like being the loyal opposition in politics. I wasn't the worst brother ever, despite what my siblings think, but I had my moments. One time, however, I wasn't being mean so much as honest and funny (well, in my opinion anyway), when my sister offered me some cookies she had just made. She was probably around twelve or thirteen at the time, old enough to tease but still sensitive enough to be hurt.
I took a bite of one of her offerings and found it to be not only burnt, but tasteless as well.
In my inimitable style, I told her, "Meg, there are bakery goods and there are bakery bads. These are bakery bads." Thankfully, that was the last time I had to eat any cookies she made. I did feel bad that I hurt her feelings, though.
The last one I can remember was when I was interviewed for a position that I had no intention of taking. I took the interview merely to meet these titans of our industry and as a favor to a friend in the firm. They asked me every violative question they could possibly ask -- how old was I? how was my health? -- knowing full well it would be my word versus theirs if the EEOC were ever brought into it.
They had the policy of making their employees work every Saturday, and I told them that I'd work one out of every four Saturdays, but because I was going to get married soon, I didn't see working every Saturday being in my future.
The one employer who was playing the bad cop went Vesuvian, so the good employer tried to rein us back in by saying, "Let's see what we know about you: We know you're young, we know you're relatively healthy and we know you're not gay because you told us you're getting married soon."
Disregarding the non sequiter for the moment, I knew exactly where it was coming from. A few years before, one of their employees was cited for contempt for mouthing off to a judge. It so happened the employee was gay. In their minds, the employers equated homosexuality to mouthiness and, since I was obviously -- in their minds -- not gay, they wouldn't have to worry about that.
For once, the planets in my head aligned perfectly.
"No, I'm not gay," I replied calmly, "but I could be bisexual."
The blood in good cop's face drained slowly, much to my pleasure.
It was the best comeback since Churchill's, I must say. Well, it's the best one I ever came back with.
Needless to say, I never got a call about the job.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The comments don't have to be incisive or particularly humorous. They just have to be well-timed and somewhat amusing. At least, that's my standard.
My alma mater has school colors of blue and orange. For whatever moronic reason, it's chosen orange as the predominant color. I don't like orange at all. But I'm also Irish (lapsed) Catholic. One time, a buddy of mine was telling me how I should wear an orange sweatshirt to show my school pride at a sporting event. I told him that just wasn't going to happen, and he continued to chide me.
"Jim," I said, "Irish Catholics don't wear orange."
Point, me.
Older brothers are supposed to torment their sisters. It's like being the loyal opposition in politics. I wasn't the worst brother ever, despite what my siblings think, but I had my moments. One time, however, I wasn't being mean so much as honest and funny (well, in my opinion anyway), when my sister offered me some cookies she had just made. She was probably around twelve or thirteen at the time, old enough to tease but still sensitive enough to be hurt.
I took a bite of one of her offerings and found it to be not only burnt, but tasteless as well.
In my inimitable style, I told her, "Meg, there are bakery goods and there are bakery bads. These are bakery bads." Thankfully, that was the last time I had to eat any cookies she made. I did feel bad that I hurt her feelings, though.
The last one I can remember was when I was interviewed for a position that I had no intention of taking. I took the interview merely to meet these titans of our industry and as a favor to a friend in the firm. They asked me every violative question they could possibly ask -- how old was I? how was my health? -- knowing full well it would be my word versus theirs if the EEOC were ever brought into it.
They had the policy of making their employees work every Saturday, and I told them that I'd work one out of every four Saturdays, but because I was going to get married soon, I didn't see working every Saturday being in my future.
The one employer who was playing the bad cop went Vesuvian, so the good employer tried to rein us back in by saying, "Let's see what we know about you: We know you're young, we know you're relatively healthy and we know you're not gay because you told us you're getting married soon."
Disregarding the non sequiter for the moment, I knew exactly where it was coming from. A few years before, one of their employees was cited for contempt for mouthing off to a judge. It so happened the employee was gay. In their minds, the employers equated homosexuality to mouthiness and, since I was obviously -- in their minds -- not gay, they wouldn't have to worry about that.
For once, the planets in my head aligned perfectly.
"No, I'm not gay," I replied calmly, "but I could be bisexual."
The blood in good cop's face drained slowly, much to my pleasure.
It was the best comeback since Churchill's, I must say. Well, it's the best one I ever came back with.
Needless to say, I never got a call about the job.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Musicals
I like to listen to music. Growing up, our Mother instilled in us a love for music. She could sing quite well, having once cut a record for a relative. I listened to all the great musical of the 40's and 50's, Oklahoma, Carousel, South Pacific, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. I came to have a great appreciation for wonderfully written songs from those shows and to this day can still sing portions of them from memory.
At the same time, I cultivated a healthy disdain for the genre itself. The platform is designed to launch singing and dancing but defies reality. Where in life do people spontaneously break into song perfectly, harmonizing with other voices -- some of which are unknown to them prior to the song's beginning -- and with the lyrics perfectly sung? Add to that the perfectly choreographed dances, intricate numbers involving lifts and ballet moves that mere mortals must practice for weeks to perfect, and you see the senseless optimism of the era in which the movies were wrought.
There were few credible and successful musicals after ther 50's -- The Sound of Music is the only one that comes to mind -- until the recent sourge that started, I think, with Moulin Rouge sometime within the last ten to fifteen years. I can't claim to know how well they're written or performed, since I haven't paid any attention to them. But since Moulin Rouge, there's been an increasing trend toward putting out musicals.
The latest entry is Les Miserables. No, I won't give the diacriticals to make it more correctly French because the Brit producer didn't see fit to make it more correct, so I see no need to do it either. I'll explain that below. This film is an adaptation of the theater play that was, of course, a loose adaptation of Victor Hugo's opus.
I won't regale you with the same stuff about the suspension of disbelief regarding singing and dancing. All that's in there, although there's thankfully little dancing. Sure, there are some choreographed scenes, but they're more like choreographed chaos, trying to make the banal seem intricately woven. The singing is the real problem.
First of all, I'm used to the likes of Gordon McRae, Shirley Jones, Julie Andrews, even Dick Van Dyke, being cast in roles that required singing. If I'm going to spend the time listening to this, I may as well not be subjected to the sound of someone singing while a surgeon operates on his brain using a rusty rake. They don't have to be operatic superstars or even recording artists, just be able to hold a tune...pleasantly.
Anne Hathaway, whom I despise, ruined her part for me by waxing obnoxious explaining in an interview how she had to learn to sing while she cried. Save it already. I Dream A Dream is a beautifullly melancholy song. I get the emotion of it, just sing it so it's a song and not a death rattle. This, of course, points out the obvious, inherent flaw in musicals: Emotion is clearly called for in this scene, but to inject it ruins the song, thereby nullifying the whole point of the musical in the first place.
Hugh Jackman, whom I admire, did a great job and both acted and sang his part fine.
The others, for the most part, performed capably, notably the actress who did the jilted daughter of the hoteliers and, most suprisingly, Amanda Seyfried. Karen reminded me she'd been in Mamma Mia -- another musical I'd been fortunate enough to avoid -- and that explained her competence. The only thing I'd heard about that movie is that Pierce Brosnan brayed like a water buffalo.
But the true horror of the movie, insofar as singing was concerned, was the unfortunate choice of Russell Crowe to play the pivotal role of Javert. For some inexplicable reason, the producers of the movie chose someone whose singing style, should it exist at all, is best confined to a shower in a prison. Whatever accolades Crowe earned in his career, I don't think that singing ranked in the top fifty.
The other and equally bothersome aspect of the movie was the by now almost kneejerk insistence on putting Brits in roles to liven up the local color. The last time I checked, Les Miserables was all about France. There was no relation to Britain at all, unlike A Tale of Two Cities. There was some puny runt who fought on the barricades during the last quarter of the movie who had a decidedly Cockney accent. It was like Oliver Twist had magically been transported to Paris. For the life of me, I don't understand why artists in the English-speaking world feel that putting a Brit in a movie ups the cultural content no matter how jarring the accent. Ancient Greece? Cast a Brit. The Roman Empire? Get another Brit? Post-Bonaparte France? Get me a Brit.
For that reason, I make no effort to put diacriticals in the title since, after all, we don't use 'em in English.
I survived the musical. What mattered is that Karen loved it. As our new New Year's Day tradition, Karen and I saw another movie after this one. Just to get us as far away from British Paris as we could, we saw Django Unlimited.
Of course, Django had both a German bounty hunter and a German-speaking slave which, naturally, there were plenty of examples of in the antebellum South.
Ah yes, the suspension of disbelief. If only I could master that skill.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
At the same time, I cultivated a healthy disdain for the genre itself. The platform is designed to launch singing and dancing but defies reality. Where in life do people spontaneously break into song perfectly, harmonizing with other voices -- some of which are unknown to them prior to the song's beginning -- and with the lyrics perfectly sung? Add to that the perfectly choreographed dances, intricate numbers involving lifts and ballet moves that mere mortals must practice for weeks to perfect, and you see the senseless optimism of the era in which the movies were wrought.
There were few credible and successful musicals after ther 50's -- The Sound of Music is the only one that comes to mind -- until the recent sourge that started, I think, with Moulin Rouge sometime within the last ten to fifteen years. I can't claim to know how well they're written or performed, since I haven't paid any attention to them. But since Moulin Rouge, there's been an increasing trend toward putting out musicals.
The latest entry is Les Miserables. No, I won't give the diacriticals to make it more correctly French because the Brit producer didn't see fit to make it more correct, so I see no need to do it either. I'll explain that below. This film is an adaptation of the theater play that was, of course, a loose adaptation of Victor Hugo's opus.
I won't regale you with the same stuff about the suspension of disbelief regarding singing and dancing. All that's in there, although there's thankfully little dancing. Sure, there are some choreographed scenes, but they're more like choreographed chaos, trying to make the banal seem intricately woven. The singing is the real problem.
First of all, I'm used to the likes of Gordon McRae, Shirley Jones, Julie Andrews, even Dick Van Dyke, being cast in roles that required singing. If I'm going to spend the time listening to this, I may as well not be subjected to the sound of someone singing while a surgeon operates on his brain using a rusty rake. They don't have to be operatic superstars or even recording artists, just be able to hold a tune...pleasantly.
Anne Hathaway, whom I despise, ruined her part for me by waxing obnoxious explaining in an interview how she had to learn to sing while she cried. Save it already. I Dream A Dream is a beautifullly melancholy song. I get the emotion of it, just sing it so it's a song and not a death rattle. This, of course, points out the obvious, inherent flaw in musicals: Emotion is clearly called for in this scene, but to inject it ruins the song, thereby nullifying the whole point of the musical in the first place.
Hugh Jackman, whom I admire, did a great job and both acted and sang his part fine.
The others, for the most part, performed capably, notably the actress who did the jilted daughter of the hoteliers and, most suprisingly, Amanda Seyfried. Karen reminded me she'd been in Mamma Mia -- another musical I'd been fortunate enough to avoid -- and that explained her competence. The only thing I'd heard about that movie is that Pierce Brosnan brayed like a water buffalo.
But the true horror of the movie, insofar as singing was concerned, was the unfortunate choice of Russell Crowe to play the pivotal role of Javert. For some inexplicable reason, the producers of the movie chose someone whose singing style, should it exist at all, is best confined to a shower in a prison. Whatever accolades Crowe earned in his career, I don't think that singing ranked in the top fifty.
The other and equally bothersome aspect of the movie was the by now almost kneejerk insistence on putting Brits in roles to liven up the local color. The last time I checked, Les Miserables was all about France. There was no relation to Britain at all, unlike A Tale of Two Cities. There was some puny runt who fought on the barricades during the last quarter of the movie who had a decidedly Cockney accent. It was like Oliver Twist had magically been transported to Paris. For the life of me, I don't understand why artists in the English-speaking world feel that putting a Brit in a movie ups the cultural content no matter how jarring the accent. Ancient Greece? Cast a Brit. The Roman Empire? Get another Brit? Post-Bonaparte France? Get me a Brit.
For that reason, I make no effort to put diacriticals in the title since, after all, we don't use 'em in English.
I survived the musical. What mattered is that Karen loved it. As our new New Year's Day tradition, Karen and I saw another movie after this one. Just to get us as far away from British Paris as we could, we saw Django Unlimited.
Of course, Django had both a German bounty hunter and a German-speaking slave which, naturally, there were plenty of examples of in the antebellum South.
Ah yes, the suspension of disbelief. If only I could master that skill.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
New Year's Day
New Year's Eve is amateur night. Everyone uses it as an excuse to get drunk. I'm not much into New Year's Eve, since it's one of the more underwhelming holidays on the schedule.
I've never understood the notion of getting all gussied up, drinking myself into a stupor just to wait for midnight so I could count down from ten to one. Then you find a person to kiss for some reason.
When I lived in Spain I learned their traditions which, to my mind, were at least interesting. There, everyone crams into the Puerta del Sol in Madrid, the Times Square of Spain. When the countdown reaches twelve, everyone pops a grape into his mouth every second to represent the twelve months of the expiring year to symbolize the ouster of the old year and preparation for the new. If nothing else, it's different.
I prefer to spend the night alone with Karen and our boys quietly in our home. That, more than anything, makes me happy.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
I've never understood the notion of getting all gussied up, drinking myself into a stupor just to wait for midnight so I could count down from ten to one. Then you find a person to kiss for some reason.
When I lived in Spain I learned their traditions which, to my mind, were at least interesting. There, everyone crams into the Puerta del Sol in Madrid, the Times Square of Spain. When the countdown reaches twelve, everyone pops a grape into his mouth every second to represent the twelve months of the expiring year to symbolize the ouster of the old year and preparation for the new. If nothing else, it's different.
I prefer to spend the night alone with Karen and our boys quietly in our home. That, more than anything, makes me happy.
(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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