Maybe the "T.S." Stood for "Terribly Similar"...

Jesse Lee Tally, known as “Doc” Tally, played baseball for the barnstorming Israelite House of David team from 1914 to his death in 1950. The House of David was a religious commune founded in Benton Harbor, Michigan, in 1903 and thrived through the 1920s and 30s. Its founders—not the most visionary of religious leaders—declared sex a sin (even for procreation), in principle dooming their movement after a single generation.

The House of David became a national phenomenon during that time for fielding a long-haired, long-bearded evangelizing baseball team (actually, several teams) that crisscrossed the country playing amateur; semipro; and professional opponents, including squads from the major, minor, and Negro Leagues. Sort of the Harlem Globetrotters of baseball, the House of David team grew famous for its fancy, yet very formidable, play. It even, for a time, boasted several former Major League greats, including Three Finger Brown and Grover Cleveland Alexander, as well as the legendary Negro Leaguer, Satchel Paige—all of whom were required either to grow their whiskers or don a fake beard.

The House of David even beat the Major Leagues to night baseball, playing its first game under electric light in 1930—five years before the Bigs. (Ever shrewd in enlarging opportunities to play for paying customers, the House of David brought portable lights on its buses to allow night games.)

Anyway, I find Jesse Lee Tally the spitting image of the recently deceased Robin Williams. Reputedly the House of David’s best player, Tally invented the famous pepper games with which players would wow crowds with their acrobatic and dexterous skills before, and during, contests. Tally thus seems like the same type of good-natured, entertaining ham that Robin Williams came to be. Interestingly, Williams, a Chicago native, was born little more than a year after Tally’s death and just a hundred miles from Benton Harbor.*

* Perhaps stranger still, Williams starred in the resemblant-named 2004 “dramedy,” House of D.

It’s almost as if Jesse Lee Tally’s spirit entered the newborn Robin Williams’ body in 1951—all it had to do was float to the far side of Lake Michigan, and it had more than a year to do so…

So, it is entirely possible that Robin Williams possessed great baseball potential, even if he never sensed it. However, the world is a better place for him taking the route that he did—not only because he left a legacy of laughter, but because Williams’ natural inclination to field a batted ball, then toss it in the air while declaring, “Fly, be free!” would have led to a catastrophic amount of unearned runs…      

(Image from Good Will Hunting copyright Miramax Films; image from Mork and Mindy copyright ABC.)

When the Law of the Land Is the Second Amendmant

I've long heard of this film, but I never knew what it was about (I think I always mistook it for 1966's run-for-your-life nail-biter, The Naked Prey). The description of The Naked Jungle on the Comcast grid:

 

"Charlton Heston plays a plantation owner threatened by soldier ants."

 

Here's the problem with Chuck: he's so obsessed with guns that, whatever the threatening situation, he deals with it using firearms, regardless of how ill-suited they may be. I wonder how that shotgun worked out for him against thousands of marauding ants? I assume the film ends with Chuck blowing his legs off as he tries to shoot the numerous ants crawling up him...eventually lying in his own gore, angrily lamenting his foolish faith in guns between wails of insufferable agony...

 

What the hell did those NRA nuts see in this dope anyway?

 

Furthermore, The Naked Jungle was released in 1954—how did they know Heston was gonna win the Oscar for Ben-Hur five years later? Hell, how did they know Ben-Hur was even gonna be made???

 

(For more on Charlton Heston and his gun fixation, see the Mount Drinkmore post, "Heston Peace,  Charlton," of April 11, 2008, located in the archive at left, or use keywords Charlton Heston, entertainment, film, or In Memoriam.)

 

(Image of The Naked Jungle movie poster copyright Paramount Pictures.)  

Two Thoughts I Could Not A-Voight

I was watching some of Deliverance last night, and I got to thinkin' that the Seinfeld episode, "The Mom & Pop Store," in which George believes he bought Jon Voight, the actor's, Chrysler LeBaron convertible, should've been about George purchasing a canoe because he thought it once belonged to Jon Voight. After all, the only real on-screen mode of transportation with which Voight is famously identified is a canoe (unless you wanna count FDR's wheelchair in Pearl Harbor or Luke Martin's wheelchair in Coming Home—but a Seinfeld "wheelchair" episode ["The Handicap Spot"] had already been done)...

Every hillbilly's talkin' at me
I can't understand a word they're sayin'
Just rowin' around in Jon Voight's canoe

And in another Jon Voight–related matter, my 35-and-over baseball season recently ended...with my team losing in the semifinals. Batting an even .300 over three games, as well as drawing three bases on balls, I'm satisfied that I pulled my weight in our effort.

Or did I?

It occurred to me several days after we were eliminated that I could have taken the opportunity after at least one of those Ball Four's to yell at the opposing pitcher a Ratso Rizzo–esque "I'm walkin' here!" while running to first base. This most famous quote from Midnight Cowboy—and its accompanying profanities and obscene gestures—likely would have unsettled the pitcher, providing us a chance for a big inning that may well have swung the series in our favor. Ultimately, I don't think I can be faulted for failing to try this tactic...but you can be sure I'm going to study it all winter and practice my "Ratso" intently during spring training so I'll have it ready for Opening Day 2013!

(Image from Deliverance copyright Warner Brothers; image from Seinfeld copyright NBC; image from Midnight Cowboy copyright United Artists.)

Fee-Fifield-Fo-Fum...I Hear the Thud of an English Drum!

In Ridley Scott's Prometheus, we see in our introduction to the android, David, that he has modeled his own facial appearance and grooming on Peter O'Toole's Lawrence of Arabia, which is confirmed by David, himself, watching the film with wide-eyed admiration.

Symbolism, both implicit and explicit, abounds in Prometheus, and like David idolizing his celluloid hero, another character clearly has copped the look of a pop-culture legend from their distant past: Fifield, the prickly English geologist, undeniably worships circa-1966 Ginger Baker. Apart from Fifield's mohawk and the geometric tattoos gracing the side of his cranium...well, see for yourself how much the fiery redhead resembles Cream's mighty drummer, right down to their patterned shirts:

Ridley Scott never hints whether rock music still exists in the late-21st century—when Prometheus is set—but we know that at least some of Fifield's generation rocks out to the music of their great-grandparents. In fact, Capt. Janek is seen playing an accordion that he boasts "once belonged to Stephen Stills."

Of course, the expedition to LV-223 would have no need of a rock musician, so why not make Fifield the next-best thing, at least symbolically: a geologist, a studier of rocks? ("I love rocks," Fifield states early into the film.)

Fifield even speaks with the same Cockney accent—albeit slightly softer—as Ginger. (This is little surprise, as the actor who portrays Fifield, Sean Harris, was born in Bethnal Green, about seven miles from Baker's home town of Lewisham. And for good measure, Harris was born in 1966—just as Ginger was finding superstardom with Cream.)

Abetting the strong physical resemblance between Fifield and Baker, Cream's music—and Ginger's martial, polyrhythmic drumming with it—easily could have constituted the Prometheus soundtrack. Such songs as "World of Pain"; "We're Going Wrong" (perfectly echoing Elizabeth Shaw's anguished realization, "We were so wrong..."); and especially "Strange Brew" (with its "killin' what's inside of you" nod to the deadly black liquid) would have ideally complemented the on-screen horrors of LV-223. As well, several lines of "Tales of Brave Ulysses" paint a more fanciful—yet just as stark—portrayal of the crew's, and the Engineers', downfall: "But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun" and "Carving deep blue ripples in the tissues of your mind" (as we see happen to the sacrificial Engineer in the film's opening scene), among others.

Even after Fifield is grotesquely mutated by the black liquid, he still bears a resemblance to Ginger—not just aesthetically (see unmutated yet still scary Ginger below), but in behavior, as Fifield goes on a psychotic spree, killing several of the crew with his now-superhuman strength...becoming, like the title of Ginger's recent autobiography, a quintessential hellraiser. Baker, though never killing anyone, became legend for his incendiary temper and proclivity for fighting—Fifield's ultimate fate.

Furthermore, Fifield's contentious relationship with similarly doomed crewmate, Millburn, mirrors Baker's thorny relationship with Cream bassist, Jack Bruce. Fifield coldly countering Millburn's offer of an introductory handshake with, "I ain't here to be your friend—I'm here to make money. You got that?" pretty much encapsulates any studio session or moment on tour between Baker and Bruce in their decades-long, barely tolerated association.

And Fifield also shares Ginger's penchant for drug use. As Fifield and Millburn re-enter the chamber with the dozens of vases containing the black liquid, Fifield's helmet fills with smoke, which he more than tongue-in-cheekly concedes to Millburn is not tobacco. Baker has been very candid about his drug use, including long-time heroin addiction, but, as it would be very difficult to inject smack through a spacesuit or snort coke while wearing his helmet, Fifield's cannabinoid tip of the cap to Ginger seems the best way to go.

Now, it may be too much to contend that the mutated Fifield's creepy "sitting position" owes anything to Ginger Baker's signature drum solo, "Toad," but there can be no doubt that, more than 120 years after Cream's heyday, Fifield is paying interstellar homage to the great Ginger Baker.

(Photos from Prometheus copyright 20th Century Fox.)

Fourteen-Carrot Ratings Gold

I've never particularly been a fan of Glenn Close—perhaps unfairly holding against her the sacrilegious remake of The Lion in Winter, my all-time favorite film, as well as never warming to The Big Chill—but my respect for Close just spiked.

I don't know the source of this photograph—it certainly has the "feel" of a late-night talk show, which would explain such a goofy stunt as this—but Glenn Close has never looked so good to me. Possessing such a talent, I finally understand what Michael Douglas saw in her in Fatal Attraction.

Now if only I could find a photo of the stunningly attractive Anne Archer doing this—preferably with rutabagas...

Scorsese Got Lazy with Living in the Material World

I finally viewed Martin Scorsese's latest film, George Harrison: Living in the Material World. As an admirer of Scorsese's work and a long-time devotee of George, I expected a real treat for the eyes and ears. Much of the 3½-hour documentary please-pleased me, but I must confess that Scorsese's direction bored me to tears. For instance, the segment chronicling Harrison's 1999 stabbing at the hands of a mentally unstable intruder lacked any sort of Scorseseian drama. Scorsese glossed over the entire incident with nothing more than talk.

Whereas previous Scorsese films, such as Goodfellas and Gangs of New York, were chock full of graphic knife work meant to convey the visceral brutality of their characters' worlds, in the case of George Harrison, Scorsese strangely opted for empty, inert monologue. Why not recreate the moment—perhaps with a Daniel Day-Lewis cameo—and let the audience in on one of the most dramamtic moments in George's life? (Sure, Harrison's assailant probably never uttered anything about "rib or chop...loin or shank" as he attacked the Quiet Beatle, but the supremely talented Day-Lewis surely could sell such a recreation.)

This is not an oversight limited only to Scorsese's latest rock & roll biopic. One need only labor through The Last Waltz and witness the first indication that the music documentary is decidedly not Scorsese's milieu. Beyond Emmylou Harris tousling her gorgeous mane and the crazily attired Van Morrison high-kicking his way through "Caravan," the film is devoid of action. Sure, the musical performances are top-notch, but, overall, The Last Waltz is a snoozer. Where is the Joni Mitchell car chase? Where is Neil Young beating the daylights out of Rick Danko with a baseball bat? Where is Dr. John putting on 60 lb for the concert and punching a wall until his hands break? How could Scorsese permit the film's finale—The Band, Ringo Starr, and Ronnie Wood backing Bob Dylan as he performs "I Shall Be Released"—to progress as nothing more than a soulful sing-along when he could have turned it into an epic bloodbath? It's no surprise that The Last Waltz is one of Scorsese's lowest earning films—even the box-office flop Kundun outgrossed it almost 16-fold!

I haven't been this disappointed in a Martin Scorsese film since the stale popcorn in The King of Comedy.

Comcast: It's Bombastic!

Nobody I know has ever had a good word to say about Comcast. And why should they? Frequently interrupted service. Expensive rates. Problematic, often combative, customer relations. Programming grids that list "To Be Announced" for hours after a power loss or, when working, are sometimes flatly inaccurate. Their sanctimonious ads boast of high-quality, inexpensive, attentive service, but I'd drop Comcast in a minute if Verizon FiOS were available in my area. Hell, I might even drop it in favor of a 1959 rabbit-eared Philco that shows only snow and has no vertical hold.

Another Comcast attribute I resent is its film synopses. The worse-rated the film, the more glowing its review—because, of course, self-righteous Comcast couldn't actually offer bad films, could it? For example, Juwanna Mann gets 1 star (the universal rating for "poor") yet is described as a "slam-dunk comedy." Another 1-star comedy, Miss March, somehow is an "uproarious road romp." I don't know if Comcast writes its own reviews or obtains them from a third party, but virtually every 1-star film is, according to Comcast, a must-see winner:

Bride Wars—"Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway are a scream..."
The Box—a "hypnotic thriller"
All About Steve—an "endearing comedy"
Bigger Than the Sky—a "charming romantic comedy"
Fired Up!—a "peppy and uproarious teen romp"
12 Rounds—an "exciting thriller"
Extract—"big laughs"
Hush—a "gripping thriller"
Bad Company—an "action-packed espionage comedy"
Year One—a "hilarious Stone Age comedy"
Jennifer's Body—"big laughs"
Did You Hear About the Morgans?—a "wacky comedy"
I Love You, Beth Cooper—a "laugh-a-minute teen comedy"
Dragonball: Evolution—an "exhilarating martial-arts fantasy film"
Old Dogs—"Get ready for big laughs"
Post Grad—a "lovable comedy"

Need more examples?

The Women—a "polished and incisive remake"
Joe Dirt—a "raucous comedy"
Step Up—includes "a wonderful wealth of dancing and romancing"
Town & Country—"Warren Beatty and Garry Shandling score as..."
The Whole Ten Yards—a "hilarious sequel"
WarGames: The Dead Code—a "thrilling sequel"
Disaster Movie—a "riotous and outlandish spoof"
When in Rome—a "lovable romance"
Taxi—"high-octane action and rollicking humor"
Max Payne—"Mark Wahlberg gives a dynamic performance..."
Planet 51—"big laughs"
Who's Your Caddy?—a "top-flight Caddyshack homage"
Because I Said So—"a charming romantic comedy"
Deck the Halls—an "uproarious holiday farce"

Such self-serving reviews make one wonder if Hollywood has ever cranked out subpar celluloid. In fact, of the very few remotely critical reviews of a film I've seen on Comcast's programming grid, the sternest is that for Johnny Dangerously (1 star): a "puerile sendup of gangster flicks."

Now, I don't know what kind of confused buffoons compile these reviews, but how does Comcast slap Beverly Hills Ninja—perhaps the greatest "Great White Hope" epic ever made...certainly funnier than its counterparts Dances With Wolves, The Last Samurai, and Avatar—with a single star yet opine that "Chris Farley is in fine comedic form in this quick-chopping comedy..."? Comcast's rating system fully discredits its review, and vice versa. Such deceptive policy is not worthy of Comcast's exorbitant monthly cost. Worse, it denigrates the film that taught us that the morbidly obese can achieve martial-arts mastery, the film that inspires those of us who desperately wish to be ninjas yet don't possess the monastic resolve to devote our lives to its practice or to eliminate Twinkies and bacon from our diet.

In contrast, Comcast gives the bland 2008 comedy, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, 2 stars. Another tired talking-animal flick, a lost chihuahua must make her way back from Tijuana to Beverly Hills, with the always-hilarious Drew Barrymore providing the dog voice. Sounds great, doesn't it? Problem is: there's no self-abusive sword work, no overturning of urns and mixing of cremated ashes, no assaulting airport metal detectors, no culinary acrobatics at a tempura grill, no communicating across the Plane of Enlightenment and resultant crash landings. A 2-star comedy should make one laugh twice as much as a 1-star comedy, yet I defy anyone with an IQ above ten—dogs included—to find Beverly Hills Chihuahua funnier than Beverly Hills Ninja.

Clearly, Comcast has no idea what it's doing.

Or, as Haru of the Takagura dojo would say: "Holy shinto!"

When Superheroes Eat Too Many Heros

Fat Spiderman, Fat Spiderman

Eats Spaghettios can after can

Crammed into a suit, triple-X size,

Can’t get out ’cause he ate three pies

Look out!

Here comes Fat Spiderman

Is he fat?

Listen, bud

He’s got the bod of an Idaho spud

Can he swing from a thread?

Not unless it’s made of lead

Hey, there

There goes Fat Spiderman

In the chill of night

At the scene of a meal

Like a streak of gravy

He devours anything congealed

Fat Spiderman, Fat Spiderman

Friendly corpulent Spiderman

Diet and exercise

He’s ignored

Inaction is his reward

To him, life is a great big bag of chips

Wherever there’s onion dip

You'll find Fat Spiderman!

A Great American

In a perfect world, George Carlin would have been president, for he possessed far more intelligence and honesty than any actual candidate. Carlin's incisive wit peeled away the layers of bullshit that the government, organized religion, big business, and everyday idiots heap on the world, exposing human foibles with the visceral precision of a forensic pathologist.

Yet, as Carlin demonstrated time and again, this is anything but a perfect world.

My introduction to George Carlin occurred circa 1977 as I watched an airing of Saturday Night Live. He walked on stage and stared blankly at the audience, not uttering a word during his entire routine. At first confused, the crowd's reaction slowly turned to pockets of giggling, until, after two or three minutes, the audience couldn't contain itself and bubbled over in torrents of laughter as an expressionless Carlin eyed them silently. I was about ten and too young to grasp the courage of such a routine. But Carlin had the courage to say and do what he believed, whether it be his infamous "seven dirty words" or his diatribes on the fallibility of religion and our leaders. Sometimes he made his audience squirm because they were among the characters and ideologies he lampooned—but he made them laugh as they squirmed, and he made them think with his wonderfully constructed routines. Carlin's rapid-fire wordplay fell from his acerbic tongue so eloquently that how he said it almost overshadowed what he said. And when he microscoped the mundanities of everyday life, such as on A Place For My Stuff—one of the funniest comedy albums ever recorded—Carlin created timeless humor that will remain forever relevant.

In one of his many HBO specials, Carlin claimed, "I'm not a very good American, because I like to form my own opinions. I don't just roll over when I'm told to." His all-too-accurate knock on Americans' sheep-like proclivity aside, George Carlin was, perhaps, the ultimate American. Anyone can waive Old Glory and proclaim America "great"—it is the courage to question (and when necessary...denigrate) the highly suspect actions of those in power that constitutes the rarefied essence of what it means to be an American.

The Supreme Court ruled Carlin's "seven dirty words" routine "indecent, but not obscene," but Carlin, watchdog as well as comedian, highlighted life's true obscenities in its iniquities, prejudices, and idiocy. He never mellowed with age or grew complacent with fame, maintaining to the end his prolificacy and dissatisfaction with the state of the world. Carlin is one of the few people about whom I can honestly say that our world is a lesser place without him, because—if you'll consult his seven dirty words—George Carlin was one funny #6.

Heston Peace, Charlton

As a youngster, one of my first personifications of God was Charlton Heston’s Moses in The Ten Commandments. Sure, I little grasped biblical hierarchy, but Moses’ austere white beard, commanding voice, flowing robe, and superpowered walking staff epitomized a Supreme Being to my young eyes. Not long after, Dad took me to see Earthquake, and the ultimate eye-opener proved not to be the oh-so-lame Sensurround, but witnessing the man I previously identified as God struggling to lower a screaming yenta down the side of a wrecked skyscraper with a chair and firehose. That’ll take the luster off a deity right quick.

Still, as both actor and activist, Charlton Heston played a leading role on the American scene for more than half a century, fooling thousands into believing he was Jewish through such iconic roles as Moses, Judah Ben-Hur, and the narrator in Armageddon, while lending star-power to every Rambo-wannabe nutjob itching to get his trigger finger on an automatic weapon. With the passing last Sunday of one of the earliest influencers on my conscious, I can’t help but pause to reflect on the man who, for a time, filled my young mind with otherworldly wonder.

Nor can I help but wonder if his final resting place will be marked by a Ten Commandments–like double-headstone. Or possibly a half-buried mini–Statue of Liberty. Will any apes attend his funeral? Will he be buried with a rifle, or will the funeral director indeed pry it from his cold, dead hands? Will he even be buried, or will his corpse be used to make soylent green? Tough questions to ask about the man who once embodied my concept of God.

Yet they needed to be asked. Needed to be asked because I’m bored out of my freakin’ mind by my job and all I have for jollies during daylight hours is this goddamn Web site that nobody reads and it now costs almost $3 for a friggin’ slice of plain pizza and I can’t get my hands on a DVD of the original Ultraman series, which I haven’t seen since 1975, and no one uses a goddamn turn signal anymore and the world is teeming with idiots, all of whom find their way into my life, and the country is doomed and I’m hungry and I have no money for the vending machine and I just wanna lie down.

Yes, these questions needed to be asked.

Heston peace, Charlton.

A Roll of the Dice-K

Forget that the Boston Red Sox thrashed the Colorado Rockies last night, 13-1, and may well be en route to the 2007 World Series championship. The franchise has sunk a huge chunk of its future into Daisuke Matsuzaka—$52 million over six years on top of $51.1 million just for the right to negotiate with “Dice-K.”

Boston has received a modest first return on its $103 million investment: 15-12, 4.40 ERA, 201K, plus three mediocre starts in this postseason.

One cannot blame Boston GM Theo Epstein for dishing out a fortune on a player with, at the time, zero Major League experience—he wanted to beat the rival New York Yankees to the punch in acquiring the next potential phenom.

Personally, had I been the Red Sox GM, I would have signed Dice Clay instead of Dice-K. With little going on in his career these days, Dice Clay could have been signed for a lot less than $103 million, and his array of filthy language would mow down hitters far more effectively than Matsuzaka’s array of filthy pitches.

Hall of Famer Warren Spahn once said, “Hitting is timing. Pitching is upsetting timing.”

Well, nothing could upset a batter’s timing more than hearing the pitcher yell, F*ck you, you stupid muthaf*ckah! You think you’re gonna hit my f*ckin’ fastball, ya fat f*ckin’ pr*ck?! There’ll be martial law in this stadium, ya hear?!

Dice Clay: 20 wins easy.

Love Them Fatsuits!; Or, What the Hell Is Wrong With Eddie Murphy?

Once upon a time, Eddie Murphy was a spunky, up-and-coming comic whose edgy, profanity-laden routines were enjoyed by all. Then, somewhere in the early 1990s, something changed. He discovered fatsuits. No one knows how or why this had such a profound effect on his life, but it did—and for whatever reason, monomania set in. First, there was The Nutty Professor. Note, Jerry Lewis did not wear a fatsuit in the original, but Eddie Murphy felt the film was screaming for one. He felt this about all films, actually. He then moved on to The Nutty Professor 2. He was really expanding his range in the fatsuit now, playing several characters in fatsuits within the same scene!

Martin Lawrence, feeling that Eddie Murphy had found the Holy Grail of comedy and that there was no turning back, rolled out his own brand of fatsuit movies with Big Momma's House. Sure, these were clearly B-level fatsuit movies, but, hey, they were enough to get us through the drought between the Eddie Murphy versions.

Now Eddie's back with Norbit, in what's sure to be hilarious look at a spineless loser with a morbidly obese wife. Be on the lookout for Norbit 2, or perhaps a remake of The Absent-Minded Professor in which he invents a Flubber fatsuit.

(Photos copyright Paramount and Dreamworks Pictures.)