In true Civ 3 fashion, USA Today ranks the most and least literate US cities. “Yuppie magnets” Minneapolis, Seattle, and Pittsburgh are at the top of the list, with Texas and California rounding out most of the bottom slots…score one for the South.
Category: North America
Eyes on the Prize.
A sheriff’s deputy stumbles upon an impressive collection of civil rights mugshots in a Montgomery, Alabama basement.
Crom laughs at your Democrats.
“Girlie men?” Don’t mind the Governor…it’s the ‘Roids talking.
Sympathy for the Devils.
The mystery of the grassy knoll has finally been solved, and the second shooter was…John Wilkes Booth?! For the first time in an age, I took advantage of the New York theater scene last night and caught the much-heralded revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Assassins at the Roundabout Theatre, which chronicles the inner demons of Mssrs. Booth, Oswald, Hinckley, and assorted other murderers and would-be-murderers of presidents. All in all, I’d say I enjoyed it, although it took a musical number or two for me to warm to the material (some never made the leap — the guy next to me left outraged.) And there’s some memorable performances here, particularly Denis O’Hare as Charles Guiteau (Garfield’s assassin) and Michael Cerveris as Booth.
Still, the basic (and ahistorical) message of the play — that all assassins, whatever their surface motives, are just looking for a little happiness, a little love, and a little fame — was encapsulated much more succinctly by Peter Gabriel’s excellent “Family Snapshot” two decades ago. And, while I like that song and admire what this play was trying to be, this “everybody needs a hug” thesis is too reductively simplistic. Notwithstanding freak shows like Hinckley, assassination is by its very definition a political act, as is distressingly obvious to all of us given recent events in the Middle East. Sure, a lot of assassins are flat-out crazies…Hinckley, Mark David Chapman, Sirhan Sirhan. But others — Booth, Guiteau, Leon “McKinley” Czolgosz, James Earl Ray, Brutus — had a political agenda in mind that can’t be explained solely by “bad reviews” or a lack of affection as a child (which is perhaps why the Sondheim play ignores the Stalwart v. Halfbreed internecine strife propelling Guiteau to his foul deed.)
Still, if you can stomach the subject matter, Assassins is a moderately engaging fever dream rumination on American loneliness and presidential murder, replete with a sinister carnival barker and Moebius strip leaps in and out of historic continuity. Perhaps the most resonant effect in the play is that of the other assassins — eerie, floating, voiceless heads underlit to resemble Capt. Howdy in The Exorcist — watching their colleagues from the mists of History, or from the grave. Misery loves company, and from Cassius on, assassins just adore a conspiracy.
Beat Box Bjork/The Beasties Bash Bush.
On her upcoming album Medulla, due out at the end of the summer, Bjork goes acapella (with the aid of The Roots’ Rahzel and Faith No More’s Mike Patton.)
Found while perusing the five star RS review of the all-new (and very old skool) Beastie Boys album, To the Five Boroughs, which is very much both a post-9/11 ode to NYC and a virulently anti-Dubya album (“Put a quarter in your ass, ’cause you played yourself.”) As has been the case since Ill Communication, MCA gets a bit too preachy at times (For example, “We’ve got a president we didn’t elect/The Kyoto treaty he decided to neglect” on “Time to Build,” or “Never again should we use the A-bomb/We need an international ban on/All W.O.M.D’s gone/We need a multilateral disarm.” on “We’ve Got The.”)
Nevertheless, I think the new Beasties project is a success, redeemed by (1) the catchy mid-eighties beats and samples (Check out “Rhyme the Rhyme Well”) and (2) the unleashing of the B’s perennial secret weapon, the King Ad Rock, who seems to be having more fun in the game than the other two guys by miles. (For example, “Yo, what the falafel/You gotta get up awful early to fool Mr. Furley“ on “Oh Word”, or when he channels a mean Smooth B on “Crawl Space.”) You already know by now if the Beasties are your bag, so if you want Licensed to Ill-era beats with Hello Nasty rhymes, To the 5 Boroughs is worth picking up. But, one word of warning from “3 the Hard Way”: “If you sell our CD’s on Canal before we make ’em, then we will have no alternative but to serve you on a platter like Steak-umm“) Hey, don’t say you didn’t know.
June 6, 1944.
“People of Western Europe: A landing was made this morning on the coast of France by troops of the Allied Expeditionary Force. This landing is part of the concerted United Nations’ plan for the liberation of Europe, made in conjunction with our great Russian allies …I call upon all who love freedom to stand with us.” – Dwight Eisenhower
The Dubya Effect.
Democratic House candidate Stephanie Herseth wins in GOP-leaning South Dakota, and the Dems’ prospects in the South brighten. How much do you want to bet Karl Rove is pushing hard right now for a refocus on catching Osama before November?
Spring into Summer.
Well, my recent injury has prevented me from seeing Gill tonight in La Bayadere as planned, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go. Tickets for ABT’s spring season at the Met are on sale now through July 3rd.
California Scheming.
Transcripts emerge of Enron officials bragging about “stealing money from California…to the tune of a million bucks or two a day.” Whatsmore, it appears that former chairman and Bush buddy Ken Lay, who has not yet been charged with any Enrongate malfeasance, knew full well that his company was extorting millions from the likes of “Grandma Millie from California.” Shady.
Mission Compromised.
When writing about Touchstone’s new version of The Alamo, I find myself in a very similar situation as I was post-Hellboy. Part of me really wants to say nice things about this movie. The occasional film flourishes aside (such as Davy Crockett’s last stand), I think The Alamo for the most part tries to get the history right…Dennis Quaid’s Sam Houston is more a whiskey-doused speculator than American hero, Crockett is something of a congressman on the make, and there’s at least a nod to such ugly realities as American slavery and the land-grab nature of the whole Texian enterprise. Moreover, the Mexican view of the battle is also more fleshed out than we’ve come to expect in Alamo movies, even if Santa Anna is played like a straight-up Bond villain. Heck, compared to Gods & Generals, it’s like this movie was written by Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky.
But, frankly, The Alamo turns out to be kinda dull through most of the middle hour. The set-up is well-done, the payoff is well-done (notwithstanding the twenty minute foray into the Battle of San Jacinto, which reminded me of the Doolittle Raid in Michael Bay’s lousy Pearl Harbor), but the twelve days of siege that comprise much of the movie is ultimately a bore. “Well, Col. Bowie, we’re all going to die.” “Yes sir, Lt. Col. Travis, that’s correct, we’re dead ducks. What do you think, Davy?” “I’m with you fellers. Mincemeat.” Part of the problem in this second act is that the film keeps slipping away from the history in favor of lapses into movie convention. We’ve got Davy Crockett and fiddle having their “King of the World” moment on the eve of the final battle. We’ve got the vaguely rousing “we will go down in history” speech by Travis. We’ve got Jason Patric — surely, the only actor who’s been poised on the brink of the big time longer than Billy Crudup — dying of consumption for interminable stretches, with all the deathbed movie tropes that entails. (Jim Bowie’s bout with sickness holds very little dramatic impact, given that we know he’s on the way out anyway.) For almost all of this section of the film, even as a history buff, I was fidgeting for the big battle to start, and I couldn’t help thinking (and feeling guilty about it) that all of this men-under-siege grimness was done better a year ago in The Two Towers.
Yet, the one major respite from the middle hour’s blandness is Billy Bob Thornton as Davy (“He prefers David”) Crockett. While Sam Houston is sidelined, William Travis is a (pretty good) unknown, and Jim Bowie is moaning and clutching the sheets, Billy Bob’s Crockett is just trying to keep his chin up, and he’s the only character here who seems both realistic and larger-than-life. Throughout the film, even when forced into the most goofy lines or plot devices, Billy Bob/Crockett has a grim, self-deprecating smile on his face that says both “Can you believe it? I’m Davy Crockett!” and “How the hell did I end up dying in this backwater mission?” And some of the best sequences in the film involve Davy ruminating on his own myth, or remembering his days as an Indian fighter. In sum, Billy Bob is so good here that I spent most of the film contemplating who else I’d cast alongside Thornton for the definitive American History miniseries. Christopher Walken as 1850 Henry Clay? Fred Thompson as James Buchanan? Adrien Brody as Mexican War-era Lincoln? The possibilities are endless.