down the decades.

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Iowahawk covers the disappointing earnings from Hollywood's latest wave of hard-hitting anti-Santa, anti-Christmas movies:

Star power was also unable to save Sundance Films' "Dialog On 34th Street," Writer/ Producer/ Director/ Star/ Costume Designer/ Makeup Artist Robert Redford's take on the Christmas quagmire. Just last month the film had a triumphant debut for Redford at Redford's prestigious Sundance Film Festival, where it brought home Best Picture and earned Redford the Golden Redford for his portrayal of a young, gauzily-lit rugged dissident intellectual cowboy filmmaker who exposes the lies told by a department store Santa Claus (Tom Cruise) to a cynical 7-year old girl (Meryl Streep). During its national weekend opening, however, it was only able to generate $7,425 in tickets sales, a figure which some industry analyst said would not cover the film's advertising budget, let alone the CGI and spackle cost for Mr. Redford's closeup scenes. The film may have also suffered from lukewarm reviews that faulted its overly cerebral tone, and 68-minute laptop dialog between Cruise and Streep.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Chicago Sun-Times film critic Roger Ebert, who gave glowing, 5-star reviews to each of the films, said he was not surprised by their poor financial performance.

"It's sad, but hopefully these wonderful films will do much better in the overseas market," said Ebert. "No matter how much down inside they know how Christmas is wrong, and Santa is wrong, it's hard for Americans to see their elves portrayed in a balanced, realistic way, as tragically haunted sadistic pederasts. By contrast European filmgoers are much more sophisticated and educated, so they eat that shit right up."

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Don Henley's lawyer's apparently won't let me embed the video—but at least they let it stay up on YouTube, which is something.

Is this every conservative/libertarian's favorite Eagles song?

And now they're distributing their latest album through Wal-Mart, which just makes my little right-of-center heart go pitter-pat.

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I still love this song. I suppose I should download Reba's version on iTunes, and then I can hear it back-to-back with Vicki's on my iPod.

But of course I've never been able to figure out the time frame involved in the story: it starts in the evening, when Andy and his friend are having a drink at the bar, and in that same evening Andy gets killed, Dear Brother is arrested, a trial occurs, and the Sheriff/Judge still get home in time for supper.

It seem to me that unless there's a time machine involved, there had to be two nights which, cumulatively, led to the lights going out in Georgia (or at least—metaphorically—for the narrator's brother).

Which is better for the story arc, but not as good for the scanning of the lines in the chorus:

Those were the two nights that culminated in the lights going out in Georgia,

On the second of which they hung an innocent man,

So don't trust your soul—or, at least, the physical part of your being—to no backwoods Southern lawyer,

'Cause the Judge in the town has been corrupt and sloppy in the past, and after this incident he had blood on his hands, though not really in the same sense as Lady MacBeth did, and these ones might someday wash out.

Andyway, here are Vicki and Reba talking about the song—and then singing Reba's version. Reba has a better accent for it, and she does fabulous things with her eyes. On the other hand, she does flub the lyrics slightly.

Video clip via Janette.

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Via Ace's news sidebar (his mini-blog, to the left of the main one) comes this little tidbit about Queen's sainted guitarist:

LONDON (Reuters) - Brian May, lead guitarist from rock band Queen who has just completed a doctorate in astrophysics, was on Monday named as the next chancellor to Liverpool John Moores University.

May, who will take up the role early next year, became an honorary fellow of the university earlier this year in recognition of his contribution to the arts and for encouraging public understanding of science with his book Bang! The Complete History of the Universe.

Three problems with the Reuters story: 1) that horrific dangling participle; 2) the egregious omission of the fact that—alone among the top guitarists of all time (Harrison didn't do it, Clapton didn't do it, Hendrix didn't do it; no one did it) May built the guitar he later played in concert for many years. He still has it; he still plays it. It's his signature. He fashioned it as a teenager, with his father's help in their workshop. (Maybe that was in their GARage, it being England and all.) He's not just a physicist; he's an amazing engineer.

And an underrated guitarist. Remember: before News of the World came out (or maybe it was The Game; I'll have to check), Queen produced sounds that were semi-orthodox for the time, but every other prog band was using synthesizers to do it. Queen's first five albums used no synthesizers at all. It was all Yankee British ingenuity, and Brian.

And 3) this:

"In this age of celebrity culture, it is rare to find someone who has fame, fortune and universal acclaim and yet who remains true to his core values of learning and enlightenment," said the university's vice chancellor Michael Brown.

The boys from Queen were all academics; even Freddie had studied visual arts formally. And they weren't alone in not checking their intellects at the door when they got into entertainment: after all, the guys from Monty Python and Beyond the Fringe are/were the same way.

Now if only someone would coax John Deacon back into the spotlight. Hermit Boy: your fans need you.

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Re: the writer's strike, Glenn has a note from one of the writer/producers involved, along with some devastating video that shows them bragging about all the revenue they'll be making from the internet—while continuing to insist that writers' compensation shouldn't take these monies into account.

Bonus question for my younger readers: The added background sounds are a persistent clicking, along with the ringing of a bell (thank you, foley artists). What are these noises meant to represent?

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. . . just re-issued its first album, totally remastered.

The first guy I lived with—the architectural designer—used to go to sleep to that album. At that time, nothing would relax me enough to help me sleep,* but I still liked the music, and have fond memories of lying in a dark room listening to "The Court of the Crimson King."

Val bought the remastered CD recently for Beatty, and I got to hear it again. I'm trying to work on Beatty, to get him to loan it to me so I can rip it to iTunes. Though I might just break down and buy it. (That sort of thing has been happening with shocking regularity lately.)

* That was before I discovered meditative techniques and Ambien.

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Direct from the Moving Picture Institute's press release:

The Moving Picture Institute is proud to announce that The Cleveland Institute of Art Cinematheque will screen Indoctrinate U
on Sunday, November 18th at 4:00 pm.

Screening Location:
Cleveland Institute of Art Cinematheque
11141 East Boulevard in University Circle
Cleveland, Ohio 44106
216-421-7450

Tickets will be $8 and available at the door or in advance by calling 216-421-7450. Free parking is available in the Institute lot.

Featured on Hannity's America and in the New York Times, Maloney's pathbreaking documentary has caused a sensation among journalists and higher education leaders. "This film hits you in the gut" wrote Stanley Kurtz in National Review Online, while Carol Iannone, editor of the journal Academic Questions, has called the film "shocking -- even to someone who knows a lot about political coercion on today's campuses."

Indoctrinate U's Washington premier at the Kennedy Center during the American Film Renaissance Film Festival was filled to capacity with 500 people, who gave the film a standing ovation. Almost 30,000 people across the country have signed up at www.IndoctrinateU.com to see the film -- and in response, MPI is arranging screenings in a number of major U.S. cities. Details will be announced as the events are scheduled.

I've seen several different versions of this movie, since it's been in-process for a few years, and there's always a new segment to be viewed at the Liberty Film Festival. Evan Coyne Maloney is one of a kind: he doesn't necessarily make the Academy look that good.

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on the writer's strike. Keep scrolling; just because a person is a libertarian, doesn't mean he doesn't believe in collective bargaining.

At least one of the entertainment-industry locals—the makeup union—has informed its members that the Writers' Guild is not a real union; it's only a guild. So its members are required to ignore the strike, cross the picket lines, and go to work.

This has led a lot of industry folk into a "damned if I do, damned if I don't" mindset.

Ideally, however, I'd like to see creative people—those who actually come up with ideas that enrich our lives, whether they are writers or musicians, sculptors or painters—get better and more consistent rewards for what they do.

As things stand, being in any creative field remains a hell of a way to make a living (or, in many cases, not). Despite what People magazine would have you believe about the lifestyles of the rich and frivolous . . .

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And so do I.

I should interview him; he does make a cameo in my Arizona mystery. He seemed to belong there, among the desert BoHos.

Via the ever-pornographic Hog Beatty, who is never even remotely safe for work. (Depending, of course, on what line of work you're in.)

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[Spoiler-free. I think.]

The husband and I saw Phoenix on Monday, and now I'm re-reading the book again. It's only my third Potter book in as many weeks. I'm half shocked and half delighted to see myself spinning into full-bore fan-girl mode this way, of course. It happens so rarely for me: every 30 years or so. When I'm 75 I'm quite certain some bit of popular culture—something current—will catch my eye, and I'll obsess over it. For a year or so, I'll be hip. I'm counting on it, if you want to know the truth.

It's a difficult moment, though: my husband has seen The Order of the Phoenix, but has not read The Deathly Hallows. My mother has read The Deathly Hallows, but has not seen The Order of the Phoenix (we may attempt to catch it in 3D, if it's still around next week).

But of course from moment to moment I'm not sure what I should—or may—talk to either one of them about. I musn't say too much about Hallows around the house, or I'll ruin it for my husband. I musn't discuss the casting choices in Phoenix with my mother, or I won't get a fresh perspective on it when she does see the film.

These, of course, are high-quality problems. Unless I do let something slip.

I'm ready to call my stepmother, who has a theory about some exotic discontinuity she thinks she caught in Hallows, that she was bursting to tell me two weeks ago—before I'd read the thing. I mean, sure: I've found some tiny little irregularities, but that's to be expected. After all, I'm a freakin' fact-checker, and Rowling suspended this work over the course of seven gazillion-paged books. It would have been bizarre if I hadn't caught a tiny error or two. The stepmother theory is different, of course; she honestly thinks she's caught Rowling in a major inconsistency of characterization. Naturally, I'm dying to know what that might be.

[Spoilers permitted in the comments section, if necessary: Honey, don't read this thread all the way through.]

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One more, and then I'll leave you guys alone. The younger nephews are into Green Day, and I've been told that L.Z. is the name of the game. But of course, I'd rather sneak in some Queen, because . . . because it's better music.

My primary musical advisor recommends that I send them LZ IV. But SURELY a person coud do better . . .?

Okay. I have prejudices: I'd rather pay homage to Freddie vs. get the Led out.

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. . . is arguing about what their favorite Beatles albums are.

That's a tough one, but what can't figure out is what Bowie album tops my own personal list. I'm thinking of Ziggy Stardust, or Aladdin Sane, but it's a very, very tough question. I even like Young Americans, but that's mostly top-up music. A sort of guilty pleasure, like when there are Tull fans in the house and you find yourself hidden in a tiny room, listening to "Bungle in the Jungle" via that boombox you keep hidden under the bed. (Favorite Tull: Whatever I'm listening to at that moment, or Minstrel in the Gallery.)

One cannot, however, argue with the Young Americans album art. Can one? The cigarette, the flash of red in the hair—it's Bowie at his most glamorous. (Oh, heck—he's British. Let's make that "glamourous.")

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What an amazing film.

This begins as an intensely personal story: Mine Your Own Business starts with a mini-autobiography on the part of former Financial Times reporter Phelim McAleer, who discusses why he originally went into journalism. Growing up Roman Catholic in Northern Ireland, he saw enough of man's inhumanity to man that he wanted to write, to serve as a witness, to speak for human rights. (He doesn't put it quite that way, of course, but that's how I interpreted his statements.)

While he was working for the FT in Romania, McAleer was approached by a beleaguered Canadian company that wanted to bring modern, environmentally responsible mining techniques to the Transylvanian town of Rosia Montanâ—which has been in the mining business for approximately 2000 years (yes, since Roman times). The company,Gabriel Resources, wanted him to do a promotional piece on their planned mine in Rosia Montanâ. McAleer had a better idea: Why don't you help me make a documentary? he asked. He had one proviso: The company would have zero editorial control. Zero.

Either they felt lucky, or they were very secure in their thinking that someone who looked at the actual environmental impact of the project—and spoke with the townspeople in Rosia Montanâ—would come to the conclusion that the mining project was a good idea, or at least the least-bad idea for saving the town. Perhaps, however, the company just likes writing checks to no particular end, which is unusual among big businesses. In any event, they agreed: No editorial control. And they forked over the cash.

They backed McAleer through some very unorthodox filmmaking methods: Not only does McAleer speak with a lot of the actual residents of Rosia Montanâ about the proposed mine, but he develops a bond with one of the locals, an unemployed young miner named George Lucian, who speaks some English (his linguistic skills gets better as the film progresses) and takes on an unexpectedly huge role in the documentary.

Lucian takes McAleer on a tour of the less picturesque parts of Rosia Montanâ, such as the rusty-looking hyper-polluted river that now runs on the outskirts of town, and the rather, um, geometrical piles of dirt that adorn the surrounding landscape as a result of old-fashioned mining techniques (in fact, it looks like strip mining). Eventually, the two begin researching other controversial mining projects that have also been in environmentalist extremists' cross-hairs.

Then McAleer talks George Lucian—who has never even travelled to Bucharest, much less boarded a plane—into visiting towns on other continents where mining projects are desired by the citizenry, but opposed by environmentalist activists.

They look at a project in Fort Dauphin, Madagascar, and together get to know one of the "local" opponents, who lives quite far away from the town, and is in the process of building a seaside villa on the far coast of the island. The most hilarious part of the whole movie takes place on the grounds of his estate-in-progress, where he shows his visitors his $35,000 yacht, and then explains that the villagers in Fort Dauphin are rich in things other than trifles such as material possession and "nutrition" (I kid you not: he really said that—and with the camera rolling!). In any event, he assures his guests, if any of the locals in Madagascar ever came into money, they'd squander it on beer; they certainly won't use it to educate their children. (Ever-thorough, McAleer asks Ft. Daupin residents what they would do with any money they might make by working in the mine. With few exceptions, they express a desire to send their kids to school.)

During the hilarious-but-scary discussion with the high-roller watermelon, the camera pans to the horrified look on George's face as he listens to the rich guy who opposes development and claims that he doesn't think money is really that important. We have already been told that many of the villagers in Rosia Montanâ don't have indoor plumbing, and we've seen pictures of the outhouses its denizens must use in sub-zero weather. For the first-time viewer of Mine Your Own Business, poverty has lost any allure it might once have had—and for good.

I found myself wondering why the unemployed Transylvanian miner didn't go after the rich, self-satisfied environmentalist with a knife, but young George is better-bred than I am, and it shows.

Next, Phelim McAleer heads to London, to discuss the history of ecosystems with a few of the academics there. One points out that Kew Gardens wouldn't exist if the forest that preceeded it had been "saved" by the forbears of those who now want to save poor Africans and Eastern Europeans from the horrors of human progress; another asks who, exactly, we are to tell them that development will create long-range problems for them, and that we consider them incapable of solving such problems? After all, the industrialized world has managed to mitigate a lot of the side-effects of development, while enjoying its unarguable benefits. (Back to that indoor toilet issue. I feel that an outhouse would be inconvenient here, in Southern California—much less in an environment that plunges 20 degrees below zero every winter. And just several generations ago, I'd be at the end of the average human life expectancy.)

Finally, George and Phelim head off to Chile, where a mining project is being planned high in the Andes, on the border with Argentina. The locals desperately want this project, and the money it will bring into the community, but this one, also, is opposed by environmentalists and some NGOs (non-governmental organizations). The enviros and the NGOs are also allied with local agribusiness, which has grown accustomed to using the locals as sources of cheap labor who are willing to work under unsafe conditions (for example, wearing no protective gear when they spray with pesticides) because the big landowners are, right now, the only game in town. With a mine nearby, the landowners would have to improve working conditions—and possibly raise pay—to attract labor. It seems they prefer having serfs—and, really, who wouldn't?

The altitude in Chile kicks McAleer's ass; he ends up in a clinic breathing oxygen out of a mask. It is left to his young Romanian friend George—the guy who knows high-altitude mining—to visit the site of the proposed mine, and interview the developer about what this might do for the community, and what is being done to preserve the glaciers in the area, and relocate them to neighboring mountaintops (these are not glaciers like those that live in Alaska's water: the looked small, as if they were each the size of furniture, or a fraction of a "calf" of an Alaskan glacier).

Then we get to listen to the enviros again, and it's the same old story: Those who are financially comfortable would like the world's poor to remain that way, as if they were exhibits in a sort of global zoo. All humans are equal, sure. But some are more equal than others. And tiny glaciers, of course, are more equal than people. But you knew that too, right?

If there were a real hierarchy among politically independent filmmakers, I'd be afraid that Phelim McAleer would topple the mighty Even Coyne Maloney right off his throne. (Though it may get interesting this fall at the Liberty Film Festival's main extravaganza in West Hollywood, with Indoctrinate U having to compete with Mine Your Own Business. I'm just glad I'm not on the voting panel; it would be hard to choose between those two.)

* * * * Here Beginneth the Serious Snark * * * *
[UPDATE 2: I'm not editing, exactly, but the participants in my Writers' Group suggested to me rather gently that at this point I begin to, um, preach to the choir. Ethics forbid that I cut the offending section this late in the day, but my lefty friends might want to wander off right around now. Didn't you leave something boiling on the stove? Or oughtn't you to pluck your eyebrows? You know, it's earthquake weather; go find that flashlight!]

Oh, and by the way—there's been some opposition to MYOB by environmental groups and NGOs. What a sir-prize! But I didn't see a rebuttal to the allegations in MYOB; just mushy indignation. The images of environmental damage from the existing mining operation in Rosia Montanâ (put in place under the environmentally aware Soviets) were awfully hard for me to ignore—as were the pictures from a neighboring town, where mining has been abandoned entirely, and the villagers who remain are reduced to picking through the rubble, looking for scrap metal they can sell in order to survive.

Poverty is not picturesque. It is time for us to get out of the way, and let developing countries . . . you know: develop.

UPDATE 1: And here's a bonus! A discussion of the film by environmental extremists who clearly haven't seen it, and think the filmmaker is "British," and the Romanian woman quoted therein must be "Russian."

Can we at least pool our resources and get some of these far-left greenies a few atlases? Just a thought.

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or maybe the record companies are run by idiots.

I love the approach of pulling Prince albums off the record-store shelves. That way, those of us whose interest is piqued by his newest album will have to buy the CD online.

And won't TAFKAP be sorry then? Un-freakin'-believable, the death wish the music business has.

Via Insty.

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. . . has its own website now, by the way. There's a nice trailer for the film right there on the home page.

I've been excited about this film for the couple of years I've been seeing segments of it at the Liberty Film Festival (which is here in L.A. every fall, courtesy of the folks who created the Libertas blog, Jason Apuzzo and Govindini Murty).

Meanwhile, On the Fence Films is promoting not just Indoctrinate U, but some of their other offerings. A few of these—Dead Meat, in particular—shine the spotlight on how care is rationed under the Canadian healthcare system. I've been thinking that any of these might be good companion pieces to Michael Moore's Sicko. (Yes: I have a standing offer with my lefty friends to watch any of the documentaries they want me to see—as long as I can also show the DVD of my choice on the same night. What I will not do is rent one of Moore's movies myself, thereby putting money in his pocket.)

On the Fence, by the way, now has a blog on its home page.

Documentaries may or may not be fine art (I think they are) but I really feel that center-right filmmaking is about to tackle narrative movies, and in fact that there is a sort of renaissance brewing among classical liberals who are bored with the far-left stances of many writers, producers, filmmakers, painters, sculptors, and performance artists.

It isn't as if art were incompatible with Western Civilization, so it's no surprise that there's more interest in creating art among those who defend its values, now that some of the traditional gatekeepers have been taken off-duty.

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. . . debates Iowahawk on how The View might become watchable. I wouldn't know, since I've never watched that show. (Of course, I don't even watch good television, so what the fuck do I know?)

Two of the funniest guys in the blogosphere, in one post!

Missing: Ace. But one cannot have everything. At least, that's what they tell me.

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See this little nugget on Britain's NHS.

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Canadians are taking issue with Michael Moore's latest faux-documentary:

At a news conference, Canadian journalists harangued Moore for, as Toronto Star film critic Peter Howell wrote, making "it seem as if Canada's socialized medicine is flawless and that Canadians are satisfied with the status quo." Apparently taken aback by the assault from the Canadian journalists, Moore said, "You Canadians! You used to be so funny! ... You gave us all our best comedians. When did you turn so dark?"

And Insty remarks:

I don't know, maybe three years on a waiting list for hemorrhoid surgery will do that to you . . . .

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If we were to frame Kazan’s testimony to HUAC in terms of personal loyalty, what about his responsibility to, say, Vsevolod Meyerhold? When Kazan joined the Group straight out of Yale, the company looked to the Russians for inspiration, not just to Stanislavski but also to his wayward disciple Meyerhold. The latter was a great mentor to the young American and other Group members. This was a period, remember, when the Group frequently visited Russia – Lefty, for example, was staged in Moscow. Meyerhold loved the older stylized forms – commedia del’arte, pantomime – and refused to confine himself to Socialist Realism. So Stalin had him arrested and executed.

Think about that: murdered over a difference of opinion about a directing style. As “persecution” goes, that’s a little more thorough than forcing some screenwriter to work on a schlock network variety show under a false name.

Amid the herd-like moral poseurs, Kazan was always temperamentally an outsider, and his work benefited after he became one in a more formal sense. But, both before and after, his best productions concern themselves with a common question: the point at which you’re obliged to break with your own – your union, your class, your group, or, in Kazan’s case, your Group. The 1947 Oscar-winner Gentleman’s Agreement strikes most contemporary observers as very tame, square Kazan. But, in a curious way, that’s the point. When you start watching and you realize it’s an issue movie “about” anti-semitism, you expect it to get ugly, to show us Jew-bashing in the schoolyard, and vile language about kikes. But it stays up the genteel end with dinner party embarrassments, restricted resort hotels, an understanding about the sort of person one sells one’s property to. Dorothy McGuire and her Connecticut friends aren’t bad people, but in their world, as much as on Johnny Friendly’s waterfront, people conform: they turn a blind eye to the Jew-disparaging joke, they discreetly avoid confronting the truth about the hotel’s admission policies, and, as Gregory Peck comes to understand, they’re the respectable face of what at the sharp end means pogroms and genocide.

That’s what all those Hollywood and Broadway Communists did. They were the polite front of an ideology that led to mass murder, and they expected Kazan to honour their gentleman’s agreement. In those polite house parties Gregory Peck goes to, it’s rather boorish and tedious to become too exercised about anti-semitism. And likewise, at gatherings in the arts, it’s boorish and tedious to become too exercised about Communism – no matter how many faraway, foreign, unglamorous people it kills. Elia Kazan was on the right side of history. His enemies line up with the apologists for thugs and tyrants. Whose reputation would you bet on in the long run?

That would have to be in the awfully long run. Read the whole thing.

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