PLAY TIME (1967, FRANCE)

Just as Peter Lorre did in M, I whistled In the Hall of the Mountain Kings as I strode down 52nd Street. Of course Hans Beckert wasn't in New York. But that was no matter. I learned all about the background of that musical piece from the Criterion Collection DVD of the previously mentioned Fritz Lang classic. What you can learn when you listen to Criterion commentaries!

As I continued on my journey, I had to step around a lot of glass removed from store windows, but hey, this was the Big Apple and there was always change and progress afoot. The geometry of the city impressed me beyond words. Despite its diversity, there was a rigidity of the pattern of the landscape that was as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun.

I almost tripped over the front step of the building when I at long last had reached my destination. I pumped my fist as I ran triumphantly inside on my way to the offices of The Criterion Collection. Was I really here?

There wasn’t a soul in the lobby, so I quickly slipped into an empty elevator and took a trip to the floor where Criterion lived. The greatest distributor of the greatest movies ever made. Did I forget to say WOW? As I reached the third floor and began moving down the hall, I still didn’t see anyone. Was this a holiday? I would have hated to come all the way from Chickasaw, Alabama for nothing. It was then that I almost ran smack dab into the big glass door that offered the one word that said it all: Criterion. Did it even need to say anymore?

I was relieved to see the door was open, but an empty reception desk stood before me. Strange, yes. But what an opportunity! I could sneak into the back! I could actually go into the inner sanctum. The bowels of Criterion. This was movie dork heaven! I could always say I was just looking for someone if security caught me. It was worth the risk. Without hesitation, I went through a surprisingly unlocked door and I was in a back hallway. I heard the sound of a film projector; at least I thought that was what it was. I noticed a stack of VHS tapes outside the room. I guessed these were the next to be converted to DVD and readied for distribution. I shouldn’t mess with them, should I? Are you kidding? Curiosity got the best of me as I looked at the titles, The Fountainhead, Red Dawn, Bedtime for Bonzo. These weren’t very Criterion-like titles, but before I could think on it further I heard a voice from a room a couple of doors down.

I really should go now. But when would I ever get the chance to be where I was now? I snuck up next to the door and listened.

“This is Henri DeGaulle, Jacques Tati scholar and I will be providing commentary for Tati’s 1967 film Play Time.”

“Now that’s a Criterion-like title,” I whispered.

I listened in on DeGaulles’s commentary.
“What Tati is trying to say is that when you look past the depersonalization of the city, what you get is a bloated and oppressive government that tries to run your life and cripples you with high taxes designed to hinder the achievers in society. These personal achievers get punished by having to cough up their hard earned income to provide healthcare for illegal immigrants and fund abortion clinics.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. What was he talking about? Play Time was about the dehumanization of modern society as seen thorough geometric shapes and the like. How we acclimate ourselves to the straight lines of society before eventually breaking into an individualistic curve. Maybe I didn’t have the interpretation exactly right, but Henri’s interpretation was utterly absurd!

Something told me I should get out of there as fast as I could, but pulled myself into the room as I heard Henri DeGaulle saying something about how Tati’s film advocated prayer in the public schools. Had this learned scholar really gone this far off the deep end? I noticed De Gaulle’s accent seemed a little off. Beside him was a half-drunken glass of red wine, a chunk of Roquefort cheese and a cigarette smoldering within a cigarette holder. It was perfect. A little too perfect.
I noticed his tiny black moustache as I approached him. He was also wearing a beret set slightly askew on his head. I drew closer and it was then I noticed the truth.

Once again I should have ran, but instinctively I pulled off his beret.

“You’re not Henri DeGaulle. You’re Fox commentator Glenn Beck!”

Beck spun around as he ripped off his fake moustache. He lunged for me, but luckily he tripped over his chalkboard before he could capture me. As I ran out of the room, he did manage to cut my left leg with one of his talons, which was painful, but didn’t cause me to slow down. He didn’t follow me, but pointed and let out a piercing squeal as I ran away. My leg hurt, but I had to continue.

Before I could reach the emergency exit, Two figures stood down from me. They too were recognizable. It was Fox demagogue Sean Hannity and Cable TV agitator Ann Coulter. They pointed in my direction and let out squeals of their own as they came at me. They both flashed an impressive set of vampire teeth, but I had no time to debate whether or not they were members of the undead. I spotted an open window and went out on the railing. It was three stories down, but realized this might be my only means of escape.

I shouted “Sic Semper Tyrannis” as I jumped out of the building. I realized it might not have been the appropriate thing to yell out, but I was improvising. I plummeted onto an awning, before rolling onto some garbage cans. My fall busted my elbow up pretty severely. Hannity and Coulter were looking down on me as I managed to get myself up. I felt a sharp sting on the back of my neck which I at first thought might be from a BB gun. But it wasn’t BB’s. It was tea bags. They were actually pelting me with tea bags! Damn. And these fanatics sure had great aim. And they really stung!

As I limped back down 52nd street, it was then that I noticed there wasn’t anyone else on the street. I didn’t pay attention as to what was going on around me on my way to Criterion because I was too excited. What I saw now were pods. Or were they spores? All lined up and ready to attack at any moment. Or maybe replication? I turned away from them and headed for what I thought was an open door, which led to a hotel. Every ounce of my flesh felt like it was burning as I crashed through the glass. Oops. Not an open door after all. Man, I wish I had noticed the glass was there before. I shook off the shards as I picked myself up and went to look for a place to hide, but all the cubicles…they all looked the same. I was disoriented. I made a run for a hiding place, but felt something trip me. I toppled hard and landed squarely and painfully on my hip. I looked up to see the culprit and noticed the shapely leg that tripped me belonged to none other than former Alaska governor Sarah Palin. She too began to squeal as she started to pelt me with teabags at point blank range. What is it with these people and their damn tea bags? I guess they were teabags anyway. The blood flowing over my eyes made it too difficult to tell.

I managed to back out of the building and hobbled to a side alley where I collapsed next to a dumpster. I couldn’t go on any longer. It was just a matter of time now. It was then that I heard the whir of a small hovering spacecraft of some kind approaching. Was this for real? Was this the end? After I wiped my eyes, I could make out that it was in the shape of a doughnut. No, it looked like the letter O. As the door to the craft opened, I saw a shining light behind the figure as he emerged from it. He was a tall, thin, brownish male with an engaging smile. Realization sunk in as he put his hand out to me.

“You’re the pres…the pres.” I was unable to get the words out.

“Come with me if you want to live,” he said as he reached out his hand to me.

I took it.

TO BE CONTINUED

CHARIOTS OF FIRE (1981, GREAT BRITAIN)

When I started this blog last August, my first entry was for Chariots of Fire. I hadn't seen it, but expressed a desire to do so. Now, I still haven't seen it, but I still want to. I vow to end my 28 (now 29) year streak of not having seen Chariots of Fire to be over soon. Well, pretty soon anyway. When I get a chance. It's on my list. Really. I'll watch it. Just don't rush me. Don't rush me!

SOLYARIS (1972, SOVIET UNION)

I, Kris, the blog writer continue to wrestle with my thoughts. I simply cannot decide what to write about the 1972 Andrei Tarkovsky Russian Science-Fiction classic Solyaris. I lie down to think further and have strange dreams about linguini and tiramisu throughout the night.

I awaken to find myself crinkling against the cellophane of an unfamiliar mattress. A lithesome figure in a blue negligee shuffles past me. I follow the figure to an adjoining room. Her back is to me as I tap her on the shoulder. She turns to me. The young woman blushes as I eye her with disbelief.
“Ciao,” she says coyly.

“I know you. You’re…you’re Claudia Cardinale! I’d guess about vintage 1969 from about the time of Once Upon a Time in the West,” the blog writer says.

“1968. But you were close.” She puts a hand to her mouth as she giggles.

The blog writer sits down in a white plastic chair and Claudia does the same. For the first time he takes in his surroundings. There is a wide telescreen that looks like it hasn’t been viewed in years, a black swivel chair that is shaped like a giant hand, a 1950’s style Radar Range, a small closet with a single neatly hung astronaut suit, a giant globe, a bust of Plato, two glass discoballs, a stained glass widow of what looks like Jethro Tull (the agriculturist-not the band), a well preserved antique copy of Don Quixote, a few flashing bright red, mostly non-functioning computers and several neatly hung fallout shelter warning signs. The walls are covered with white padding, which surround a large porthole, through which I can see seemingly all the stars of the heavens. But the beauty of the heavens can’t compete with the beauty of the creature to my left.

As I lock onto her, I find myself unable to look away. The long dark hair, those catlike eyes and that smile! I felt the need to say something to her. “Your negligee, it’s on backwards,” I manage to get out.

She blushes as she quickly adjusts her outfit the right way.

I, Kris, lean towards her. “We appear to be on a space station of some kind.I guess the big question is why am I hear and why are you here?”

“Does my presence not please you?” she asks.

I turn closer to her. “No, that’s definitely not the problem. You’re appearance here represents my idea of feminine perfection. But you can’t really be here. I think some alien force has created you for my benefit…or my destruction.”

“I am not here to harm you.”

I stand up in a moment of revelation. “I got it! I’m like Captain Kirk in Gamesters of Triskelion. We’re here to provide amusement for our captors.” I shake my fist in the air and yell at the ceiling. “We’re not going to provide you your entertainment! You hear me?” I notice she’s giggling again and I have to laugh myself. “I can’t believe it. I’m presented with a representation of the greatest example of feminity the species has ever produced and within two minutes I make a lame Star Trek reference. What a dork.” I smack my head.

“Don’t do that” she scolds me reaching for my arm. “I think your speech was sweet.”

“Now I know you can’t be real…This is heavy...I need a minute.”

I go into the room next door and notice it is a washroom. I close the metal door behind me. I splash water on my face and look in the mirror, trying to get a grip on what is happening. I hear a crash behind me and I notice Claudia has smashed her way through the door and is lying on the floor in a heap.

“I thought you were leaving me, mio amore,” she says as I pick up her body and take her to the bed to administer first aid to her wounds.

10 minutes later

By the time I get a damp cloth to what appeared to be serious lacerations on her arms, I notice she is practically healed. In another couple of minutes, she is laughing as she is brushing herself off.

I start to speak to her when I notice a midget scurry through the room and out the side door.
“Did you see that?” I ask.

“See what?”

“That midget.”

“I didn’t see any midget,” she shrugs. “No, no piccolo,” she adds.

“And in the corner of the room. It’s raining! We’re inside a space station and it’s raining!”

She shrugs again.

I start to respond, but can only shrug in response as I turn back to her.

I still can’t compute the logic of the situation. The Claudia Cardinale of 1968 (I still think it’s the 1969 Claudia no matter what she says) can no longer exist. How could this be real?

Apparently sensing my quandry, she takes me by the hand and tells me to close my eyes. I begin to question her, but she shakes a finger at me and tells me once again to close my eyes and imagine. I begin to relax. Images begin flowing freely through my head. It is dark, yet I can see. I see stripes..on the middle of a road. And then I see… Claudia and I are driving. Driving through tunnels. She’s still holding my hand.

“This is pleasant, but what is it?” I ask.

“It’s the city of the future.”

“So, is this a fantasy within a dream within a work of fiction and why are we in black and white?”

“Stop analyzing everything. Your’re cruising through tunnels with 1968 Claudia Cardinale. Just enjoy it.”

After about a minute I ask her how long the trip is going to last. She tells me a few more minutes and I smile and take her advice and enjoy the ride. I still think it’s odd that it’s in black and white, but take her advice to not analyze the situation further.

Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, we reappear on the space station and I tell her how much I enjoyed our trip to the future. The fact that the tunnels did not seem to be in any way futuristic was of no importance to me.

She flashes her million dollar smile and asks me what I would like to do now.
I snap my fingers. “I know. You can help me with my critque of the movie Solyaris.”

“Suit yourself. What have you got?” she says.

“Here’s what I have so far. Tell me what you think.” I clear my throat as I pull out my notebook from my back pocket.
“Solaris (the book) by Stanislaw Lem is a generally acknowledged Sci-fi classic. The English translation from the Polish that is generally read is by Kilmartin/Cox was disliked by Lem. The first cinematic film adaptation of Solyaris is also generally acknowledged as a classic of art house cinema is Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1972 film. Lem didn’t like this either. He thought it emphasized the relationships between Kelvin & Hari, Rheya in the book, over the more technological aspects of the film. Solyaris (the Russian film) was often called the Russian 2001: A Space Odyssey (which I agree with), though apparently Tarkovosky didn’t like that film and thought it emphasized technology over human relationships. How about the Stephen Soderberg version of Solaris with George Clooney? Lem didn’t like that one either for the same reason. I’m guessing Tarkovsky wouldn’t have liked it either if he had lived to see it. What do you think so far, Claudia? Claudia?”

As I look up from my paper, I notice Claudia lying on the ground unconscious with an empty bottle of liquid oxygen in her hand.

“Boy, everyone’s a critic.” I say.

THE LION KING (1994)

A LION KING DREAM
Sometime in 1989, Tokyo, Japan

Osamu Tezuku marched into the main office of his production company the same way he always did. Always with a smile on his face and always with a glance at that photograph of his hero. The picture in question had the superimposed cartoon figure of Tinkerbell swooshing her wand of stars over the head of the man underneath her. The man in question wore an expression that showed off a glorious sense of wonder that exhibited no surprise at the magic that could inspire a world that could produce such a glorious fairy, and the childlike twinkle in his eyes said volumes to the fact that reinforced that yes-he could believe in magic.

The man in the picture and Tezuku’s idol was, of course, Walt Disney.
At the bottom of the picture was an autograph which read:

To my dear friend Osamu, whose work I respect beyond words, Walt Disney, 1966.

1966. It was the same year that Walt left this mortal coil for the last time. To Tezuku, that made it more special.

He walked past the picture and took his seat before beginning to survey some of the sketches of his dream project-what he simply referred to as the project.

As he put on his spectacles for a closer inspection of his drawings, his assistant Koto ran up to the desk.

Koto: (breathing heavily) We have big problems Mr. Tezuku!

Tezuku: Calm down Mr. Koto! Here, take a seat.

Koto: (Waiving Tezuku off) It’s the project. Problems with the project. Look at this story!
(Koto hands Tezuku a copy of Variety with an ominous headline.)

Disney Company announces plans for latest project, an original piece called The Lion King.

Tezuku: (Laughing) Is that’s what bothering you? You believe everything you read in the American papers? Don’t you remember? Mr. Michael Eisner ate dinner at my house. This project is collaboration between us and Disney. Kimba the White Lion is my pet creation. It is now being made into The Lion King. It will be a triumph! I’ve labored over this for years. I trust Disney as much as I trust my own family. Shame on you for believing everything you read.

Koto: That’s what I thought too. So I sent Mr. Eisner a telegram. And this is what I got back.
(Koto pulls a telegram out of his pocket and reads it out loud)

Dear Sir:
We never heard of Tezuka nor Kimba.Please do not attempt to contact us again or you will hear from our legal department.
Signed Michael Eisner and Jeffrey Katzenberg, The Walt Disney Company.

(Tezuku looks disbelievingly at the telegram before walking to the center of the room.)

Koto: Mr. Tezuku! Mr. Tezuku!

Tezuku: But Mr. Michael Eisner ate sushi at my table last year. He complemented me on my wife and told me how lucky I was to be married to an oriental princess. My daughter gave Mr. Jeffrey Katzenberg a foot massage in my living room.

Koto: Can I get you something Mr. Tezuku? What can I do for you? How can I help you?

Tezuku: (Ignoring Koto’s question) Can this be true? But their sketches have hyenas, mandrills, the same plot, just like ours. Their version has a lion named Simba. That’s almost the same name as Kimba. An evil Uncle. An orphan lion. His father killed, same as ours. Look at this sketch on my desk. It’s Kimba’s father up on the hill. Their sketch in this article is identical to ours except the coloring of the lion. How can they say this Lion King is an original? This must be a mistake. How can they get away with this? I thought America was our friend!!

Koto: This is a force much bigger that the America. This is the Disney Company.

Tezuku: But I…but I would have done it for free. All I wanted was a chance in the twilight of my life to share a small link to…to Walt.

Tezuku fell back to his desk, using the weight of it to keep him from dropping to the ground. He was about to fall when Koto made a move to grab hold of him.
Tezuku pushed Koto away and stood erect. Tezuku’s head began shaking furiously as he closed his eyes. The hands of his grandfather clock in the corner began spinning backwards. When the clock struck twelve, Tezuku eyes popped open. All was silent for a few seconds, before a loud rumbling began to be heard throughout the city.

Koto: My God! We’re having an earthquake!

Tezuku: No my friend. That’s no earthquake.

Koto: What is it? It feels like the whole city is ripping apart!

Koto: I tried to think of the most harmless thing. Something I loved since the first time I saw Steamboat Willie. Something that could never ever possibly destroy us.

(As they looked out the window, they saw a 90-foot shirtless black rodent with big black ears and red pants smashing his gloved hands into every Tokyo office building in his path. The creature let out a reptilian wail as it picked up an army tank and threw it towards the Sea of Japan.

Tezuku: (matter of factly) It’s Mickey Mouse.

A band of small children ran up to the monster and began throwing pebbles at it, but the rodent retaliated by spitting out a fireball that turned the boys to ashes. The giant creature began to pound on its chest before heading for the building that housed Tezuku Productions.

The last sight Tezuku saw before a giant yellow shoe came crashing down upon him was Walt’s picture, now fallen to the ground along with Tezuku, the glass within the frame shattered. Tezuku noted Walt’s still noticeable sense of wonder through the broken glass for the last time, causing a single tear to fall from his eye.