Monthly Archives: July 2014

RNF LXII

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There are many things on my mind this morning, but I’ll settle on two for today. Y’know, save the rest for later.

First: Go spend four dollars at Amazon and buy this book. Written by none other than RtB’s own Ross, it’s a fascinating collection of quotes by and about musicians from long ago up to right now. I’m on page…well, I’m not sure what page I’m on because this Kindle thing on my phone doesn’t give page numbers, but I’m in the “B” section (the authors of the quotes are listed alphabetically). One of my favorites so far:

One of the main sources of mental corruption in this country is the ghost of Vince Lombardi:  Don’t matter how you play the game, don’t matter if you enjoy the game, don’t matter if the game means anything, the important thing is to win. I think that’s as good a definition of mental illness as you’re gonna get.  ~Jello Biafra, Dead Kennedys

Haha — true. Seriously, it’s not your typical “quote book,” if the “A” section is any indication. Hoist it on over to Amazon and buy it.

Second: While doing some early morning research the other day, I came across a 1947 headline from LIFE magazine. It read, The Most Beautiful Suicide. Without even clicking on the link, I knew the photo the title referenced: the tragic leap by 23-year-old Evelyn McHale from the Empire State Building.

She’d recently gotten engaged, but according to her suicide note, she didn’t feel worthy. The photo here is a dramatically colorized version of the original Robert Wiles picture (the only photograph he ever published), showing Evelyn in surreal, peaceful repose, with her ankles crossed, skirt hem at a respectable display length, and still holding her necklace. LIFE ran the photo (many publications refused) on a full page two weeks later, with the following caption:

On May Day, just after leaving her fiancé, 23-year-old Evelyn McHale wrote a note. ‘He is much better off without me … I wouldn’t make a good wife for anybody,’ … Then she crossed it out. She went to the observation platform of the Empire State Building. Through the mist she gazed at the street, 86 floors below. Then she jumped. In her desperate determination, she leapt clear of the setbacks and hit a United Nations limousine parked at the curb. Across the street, photography student Robert Wiles heard an explosive crash. Just four minutes after Evelyn McHale’s death, Wiles got this picture of death’s violence and its composure.

I’ve had some pretty low moments in my life, to be sure. I think it’s safe to say we’ve all had them. But to be so low — so miserably desperate and despondent — as to consider ending it all, and by leaping off a building? I can say, mercifully, that I’ve never been in that place. I hope I never will be.

I don’t mean to be morbid or gloomy today; I’m actually in great spirits (I will get things done today or ELSE). Rather, I just write what results from the neurons doing their random job.

So, I’m happy! And I love my job. And the Tribe won again last night. And NO — LeBron isn’t coming back to the Cavaliers. (Now watch me eat those words someday…)

Review: The Grand Budapest Hotel

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Some films are hard work, even if they’re great; you really have to put in overtime to hang onto the story, or care about certain characters, or achieve some manner of closure at the end. The Grand Budapest Hotel isn’t one of those movies.

If you’re a fan of Wes Anderson, this one is a shoo-in. I’ve come to the point where I don’t even need to see the credits roll– I just know it’s an Anderson film. Why? There are several reasons, all having to do with color, patterns, quirky locations, whimsical suspension of disbelief (where you know it’s impossible, but you’re enchanted by it anyway because the director makes no effort to mask its improbability with zippy special effects), and stories and characters that are ever-so-slightly off. This is why I like Wes Anderson films.

However, a treatise on what makes a movie “Wes Andersony” is better left to those who know his work more intimately. Back to Budapest.

As with many Anderson stories, the tale takes place completely in the past — the 1930s in this case, between the major European wars — in a made-up Bavarian country. Ralph Fiennes is brilliant as the hotel concierge who befriends and mentors a shy, awkward, yet exceptionally intelligent lobby boy, with whom he eventually shares a crazy adventure involving art theft, murder, a prison escape, and a beyond-silly alpine ski/toboggan chase filmed in obvious miniature (which, of course, makes it all the more enjoyable). Fiennes’s performance in this film could stand as the singular reason to watch it; he will be forever linked to that role, as Gene Hackman is to his part in The Royal Tenenbaums. Spectacular, and fun to watch. If he isn’t nominated for a Best Actor Oscar come January, I’ll be disappointed.

And speaking of actors, Anderson uses the standard horses in his stable of performers, who would all probably do the gig for free just to work with him. Among the usual suspects: Owen Wilson, Bill Murray, Tom Wilkinson, Tilda Swinton, and others. To some, this might seem tedious, but to me, it’s a familiar, comfy blanket of knowing what to expect.

One thing, though…through no fault of his own, the wonderful F. Murray Abraham, around whose character the movie centers, spoke in a tone so exactly like his role as Antonio Salieri in Amadeus, I couldn’t separate the two. It was as if at any moment, I expected to hear him speaking Italian. Weird.

The ending was the perfect mixture of nostalgia, satisfaction and sadness, with a huge nod to the sanctity of family and enjoying what life gives you, and treasuring the memory of what it takes away.

If you liked Moonrise Kingdom, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, and The Royal Tenenbaums, you’ll like this film even more.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give The Grand Budapest Hotel: