bobbyvee1 He took Buddy Holly’s place (more or less) on the day the music died. He gave Bob Dylan one of his first jobs. He put nearly forty hits on the charts and took plenty of the dubious, often nonsensical, heat for “killing” rock and roll in the supposed wasteland years between Elvis going in the army and the Beatles arriving on our shores.

He took $500 he earned playing local shows to get his band from Fargo, North Dakota to Minneapolis and into a recording studio. I’ve made that drive. It’s longer than you think.

After that, he never looked back.

Today, during this awful year that refuses to die, he passed away, having outlived his wife of forty-two years by fourteen months.

His job in the rock and roll narrative was the same as his job in the rock and roll reality: To be the sane one.

It’s not the sort of job anyone ever gets credit for here–except maybe from all the others who have those same sort of jobs and know they get paid less in part because they don’t have to put up with quite as much nonsense.

Bet they know better in the next world.

Some Nobel Prize winners even know better in this one…




Like most middle-class revolutionaries he was a little crazy, not infrequently misguided (usually in the direction of romanticizing violence or misunderstanding how little “social” change affects the application of power) and burned with a need to prove his street cred. Unlike most revolutionaries of any stripe, he made a real difference. Any spirit of reflection that exists in the halls where our political or military leaders now walk, is present because of the movement he helped bring into being.

Unlike most revolutionaries who taste even a little success, he was capable of reflection and remorse:

The death knell for the Movement sounded the next day. On May 4, 1970, National Guardsmen opened fire on students demonstrating on the campus of Kent State University. The bullets were real. The days of revolutionary fantasy were over. After a last, tremendous outpouring of protest–five hundred campuses and 4 million students went on strike to protest the Cambodian invasion and the death of 4 students at Kent State–the New Left collapsed, plummeting into cultural oblivion as if it had been some kind of political Hula-Hoop.

SDS had collapsed the year before. In June, 1969, the Progressive Labor Party had formally taken over SDS, leaving what little was left of its original spirit to a rump led by a group that called itself “Weatherman,” after a line in a Bob Dylan song. Their style was paramilitary, their strategy–though they kept their precise plans shrouded in secrecy–a matter of wanton violence. They took heart from the skirmishing between protesters and police in Chicago during the 1968 convention; the violence in Chicago, they declared, had done “more damage to the ruling class…than any mass, peaceful gathering this country has ever seen.” Professing their admiration for Che Guevera and steeling themselves for guerrilla warfare, the Weathermen hoped to become outlaws in enemy territory. America was irredeemably lost.

On the night of October 8, 1969, Hayden had addressed the Weathermen as they prepared to launch their first surprise guerrilla attack, again in Chicago. Armed with helmets, baseball bats and apparently bottomless reserves of arrogance and self-loathing, the Weathermen had assembled after nightfall in Lincoln Park, nerving themselves to smash through their bourgeois inhibitions and “tear pig city apart” in a “national action” they called “The Days of Rage.”

Hayden had debated joining them. “They had started, characteristically, as idealistic and benign people,” he says looking back. “And then something happened. Some of it was a response to events, in which moral suasion of the power structure seemed to be an obsolete idea. And this was augmented by a psychological thing: In existential terms, it became a matter of whether or not you were a man, which was measured by how outrageously subversive you were willing to be.”

At the time, Hayden was on trial [as one of the Chicago Eight]. One night, Hayden took a walk with Bernadine Dohrn, Terry Robbins and two other Weathermen. “‘Tom,'” Hayden recalls them saying, “‘this trial is going to end and you’re going to be jailed. You’re not going to get a conviction overturned in the higher courts, because Nixon is quickly changing their composition. And you will be killed in a prison riot.'” They urged him to jump bail and go underground. “We had such painful arguments,” he recalled in 1972. “They would say that I was not seizing the time, that I was not willing to risk everything.”

This was Hayden’s kind of talk, come back to haunt him. He fancied himself a fearless revolutionary. How could he resist a fresh dare? For nearly ten years, he had been on the cutting edge of the Movement, in the vanguard, ready to risk everything. But Hayden had reached his limit. “I didn’t want to cross that line,” he says.

Why? Had his courage finally failed him? Had common sense come crashing in?

“The political side, the Port Huron side of me, saved me,” he says. “It seemed very plausible to me that my life might end in some sorry prison cell. But as I look back on it, psychologically I also needed to believe on some level that the system worked. During the trial I became obsessive about preparing defense witnesses. I had a note pad, I could work out some logical detail every day. The judge, and Nixon, were so extreme that somehow the public, the press, other institutions would respond and see us as valid protesters, however they might disagree with our tactics and style. Maybe I was in touch with reality. I don’t say that with any pride. It could have gone the other way.”

Perhaps Hayden’s hesitation finally came down to his own visceral recoil from the Weathermen’s relentless, remorseless, absolutely resolute cultivation of hatred. “They were cold,” he says looking back. “They were at best–what’s that Brecht poem? ‘Judge us not too harshly….'”

The poem is “To Those Born Later,” “Hatred, even of meanness/Contorts the features,” wrote Brecht in 1938. “Anger, even against injustice/Makes the voice hoarse. Oh, we/Who wanted to prepare the ground for friendliness/Could not ourselves be friendly/But you, when the time comes at last/And man is a helper to man/Think of us/With forbearance.”

Hayden knew Brecht’s poem well. It had been posted in the offices at the Newark Community Union. He had quoted some of its lines in the course of one of his own defenses of guerrilla warfare.

“The Weatherman took that poem literally,” says Hayden softly. “There’s a lot of truth in it. But once you take it completely”–he pauses, momentarily lost in the thought–“it justifies anything. You have no flaws. They’re all written off to historical necessity.” Perhaps the lapsed Catholic moralist–the existentialist with a cause–was finally a stronger part of Tom Hayden’s soul than the revolutionary nihilist.

As the Weathermen huddled against the cold that October night in Lincoln Park, warming themselves before a bonfire built out of park benches, Hayden, wearing tennis shoes, with his shirt tails out, as always, picked up the bullhorn. He had come, he said, to tell them that he and his colleagues who were standing trial for conspiracy supported them. He welcomed, he said, their effort to “intensify the struggle and end the war.”

As he spoke, the throng readied itself for its rampage through the streets of Chicago. The architect of The Port Huron Statement realized that his words were irrelevant. Putting down the bullhorn, he stole back into the night. He had nothing more to say.

(“Democracy is in the Streets”–From Port Huron to the Siege of Chicago, James Miller, 1987, Simon and Schuster, pp, 310-313)



This year’s performing nominees for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame were announced last week. I always like to put in my two cents and I try to come up with a new approach each year. This year, with artists I have strong feelings about being in short supply on the ballot, I’ve decided to list the actual nominees next to the artist they most resemble (spiritually or temporally) who is more deserving.

You know. According to me.

And rock and roll. Let’s not forget rock and roll.

It’s a long ballot this year, so be sure to strap on your seat-belt. And please, if your sphincter is, as Ferris Bueller might have it, prone to making diamonds from charcoal, proceed with caution…

Actual Nominee: Bad Brains. I don’t really know much about them, but, listening on YouTube, they sound like every other hardcore band except the Minutemen. Like most such bands (not the Minutemen), they started out pretentious (jazz fusion according to Wikipedia and who is surprised?) until they found out where the true belief they could ,milk a ready-made cult career from lay. I only listened to a few cuts, but they certainly sound as if they always knew which side of the bread the butter was on.

Dream Ballot: The Minutemen. I listened to one of their albums all the way through once when I was in my twenties. I’m in my fifties now and I’m still waiting to reach an emotionally secure place before I listen again. I don’t know much about hardcore but I know real genius and the sound of nerves being scraped raw when I hear it.

Actual Nominee: Chaka Khan. Fine. Unlike most rock and roll narrativists, and most of the Hall’s voters, I’m not ready to forget about black people in the seventies. Speaking of which…

Dream Ballot: Rufus, featuring Chaka Khan. Yes, Chaka should be in. She should be in with her great interracial funk band, and they should pave the way for the other great funk bands, interracial (War, Hot Chocolate, KC and the Sunshine Band), and otherwise (Kool and the Gang, Ohio Players, Commodores). It seems like the more the nominating committee screws these things up, the more things stay the same.

Actual Nominee: Chic. They should be in. They’ve been consistently nominated for years but can’t overcome the disco hatred. No surprise there. Donna Summer had to die to get in. Even so, they aren’t the most deserving in this genre. That would be…

Dream Ballot: Barry White. Chic has been on the ballot ten times. You’d think they could nominate an even more popular, more innovative and more iconic artist from the same basic gene pool at least once. Come on people. Let’s at least try to make it look like we know what we’re doing!

Actual Nominee: Depeche Mode.Drone music. Admittedly, not my thing. Lots of hits in England and I don’t like to step on other people’s tastes, let alone their passions, but If somebody asked for indisputable evidence of why Britannia no longer rules the waves and soon won’t rule Britannia, I’d play them Depeche Mode music all night long. They could make up their own minds about whether that’s a good thing. Might be more useful if they at least pointed to something better, instead of a black hole.

Dream Ballot: Roxette. I was gonna go with Eurythmics, though they aren’t of the same ilk either (and might actually get on the real ballot some day). But, broadly, this is all Europop, and if there is going to be Europop, then there ought to at least be a fun single every now and then.

Actual Nominee: Electric Light Orchestra (ELO). The early lineup included Roy Wood, and the RRHOF is including Wood in the lineup that will be inducted if they get the votes. They aren’t including Roy Wood for what he did in ELO,  which means they are tacitly acknowledging that this really ought to be…

Dream Ballot: The Move/ELO. They did this for Faces/Small Faces which actually made less sense (The Faces were a much cleaner break from the Small Faces than ELO were from the Move) but certainly opened up nominating possibilities. If you have two borderline deserving bands linked by shared membership, why not just put them together? We could have Free/Bad Company or Manfred Mann/Earth Band, maybe one or two others I’m not thinking of right now. It makes more sense than a lot of other sins of commission/omission presently on the Hall’s head. The Move were probably deserving on their own, despite their lack of success in America. ELO are marginally deserving anyway, and not just because of their massive success in America. Why oh why does the Hall continually shadow box. You had a good idea there a few years back. Run with it.

Actual Nominee: The J. Geils Band. It’s not that the J. Geils Band aren’t deserving. They are. And it’s getting late. They’ve been eligible for a long time. But if we’re mining the White Boy Stomp vein, then let’s go with my old standby…

Dream Ballot: Paul Revere and the Raiders. One of my criteria is that if you either helped define a major genre or helped invent an important minor one, you should be in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Raiders had a hand in inventing what came to be called garage rock. They certainly helped define it, ergo it doesn’t matter if you call garage rock major or minor. And they were the only band that fits well within even the narrowest definition of the ethos to have a major run of hits. That they’ve never been on the ballot for a hall that includes the Dave Clark Five and the Hollies (both deserving, but still) is silly, really. [Alternate pick: Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels.]

Actual Nominee: Jane’s Addiction. A sort of thrash band with sort of Power Pop vocals. They started in the mid-eighties and you can feel them giving in to the awfulness of the times on just about any record I’ve heard (which I confess isn’t all that many, those I’ve heard not making me feel like I’ve missed anything except more dreariness, more unearned angst, more acceptance of defeat as the natural and permanent human condition we should all just learn to live with). Again, I realize these punk/alternative/alt metal//indie/thrash/etc. bands have had a profound impact on somebody’s life. I hate having to dis anybody’s taste. Still….nobody should take the world this hard unless they’ve been in a war.

Dream Ballot: Big Star. It doesn’t even matter who you (or I) like. The RRHOF has a responsibility to history. Putting Jane’s Addiction on a ballot where Big Star have never appeared amounts to criminal negligence.

Actual Nominee: Janet Jackson. No problem here. Miss Jackson had an enormous career and deserves to be in, maybe even on this ballot. But I’m curious…

Dream Ballot: Cyndi Lauper. Leaving aside why Dionne Warwick–Dionne Warwick!–has never appeared on a ballot, and sticking to the same era, why not do the all the way right thing and go with Cyndi?  She made the best album of the eighties, was the last truly inventive vocalist of the rock and roll era (just before the suits allowed the machines to take over–and at a loss on the profit sheet, too–because the machines never talk back), and her acceptance speech would likely be even more priceless than her average interview.

Actual Nominee: Joan Baez. Inducting Joan Baez into the RRHOF as a performer would be a joke. She’s never made anything resembling a great rock and roll record. She’s a perfect candidate, however, for my long-running common sense proposal to have a “Contemporary Influence” category, especially now that the “Early Influence” category is running dry. Other worthy candidates for a concept which could acknowledge great artists who influenced their rock and roll contemporaries without being quite “of” them, would be oft-mentioned names like Patsy Cline and Willie Nelson (country), the Kingston Trio (folk), or even Barbra Streisand or Dean Martin (pop). It would have also been the right category for Miles Davis (already inducted as a performer) and a number of blues acts. But, if this category is not to exist, then at least go with….

Dream Ballot: Peter, Paul and Mary. They were the ones who put Bob Dylan on the charts, two years before the Byrds. If you think this–or Dylan becoming a major star–was merely inevitable, you weren’t quite paying attention. Woody Guthrie never made it…and don’t think he couldn’t have, if PP&M had been there to provide the bridge to the mainstream (whether he would have accepted it is another question, but my guess is he would have). Besides, unlike most of the people who would properly belong in a Contemporary Influence category, they actually made a great rock and roll record…which is not nothing, even if they just did it to prove they could to people who thought “I Dig Rock and Roll Music” was only a joke.

Actual Nominee: Joe Tex. No complaints. No arguments. Joe Tex is the last of the first-rank soul men not to be inducted. He should be.

Dream Ballot: Joe Tex.

Actual Nominee: Journey. I love, without irony or reservation, “Lovin’ Touchin’ Squeezin.” It’s a great record, period. And I don’t hate the stuff everybody else hates. i don’t listen to it, but I don’t run screaming from the room if it’s on either, or get a knot in my stomach that makes me want to start ranting about the decline and fall of civilization (and you know I can find endless reasons to do that). Plus, they sold a bajillion records. Still….Seriously?

Dream Ballot: Three Dog Night. The only reason Three Dog Night weren’t in a long time ago is they didn’t write their hits. If you follow along here, you know that’s not a good reason. Especially when, on average, their hits were a lot greater than Journey’s. (Alternate pick: Def Leppard…they have the advantage of being better than Journey and a more direct replacement. They just weren’t as good as Three Dog Night.)

Actual Nominee: Kraftwerk. Another good candidate for Contemporary Influence, especially since the Nominating Committee, which would control such a category, seems to love them. Again, this not being the case…

Dream Ballot: Roxy Music. Actually, I’m not the best person to make a case for them, but at least they had some hits and a tangential connection to rock and roll. This would also tacitly acknowledge and directly honor the fine work from Brian Eno’s and Bryan Ferry’s solo careers. And does anyone really believe they were less influential than Kraftwerk?

Actual Nominee: MC5. I let my MC5 CDs go in the great CD selloff of 2002. I liked them pretty well, but I never got around to buying them back. As one of the six great bands (The Stooges, Big Star, The Ramones, Mott the Hoople and one I’m about to mention were the others) who bridged the garage band ethos to punk, they should be in. I’d pick them last, mind you (The Stooges and the Ramones, the two I might have picked them ahead of, are already in), but they should be in. Some day. Meanwhile…

Dream Ballot: The New York Dolls. I wonder what might have happened if they had lasted longer. I always loved this performance on The Midnight Special (that they were even on tells you how great The Midnight Special was), where they start with about six fans and end with about eight. I don’t know how far another five years would have taken them…to a hundred maybe? a thousand?….but I bet they’d be in the Hall already if they had made it that far.

Actual Nominee: Pearl Jam. Of course they’ll get in. All that cred. They can’t miss. And that’s fine. They helped define grunge. That’s vital, maybe even major. Well deserving of induction. But here’s the thing…

Dream Ballot: The Shangri-Las. Just curious, but besides turning up the amps and groaning a lot, what did Eddie Vedder do in a quarter-century that Mary Weiss didn’t do, without a trace of his trademark stridency, in three minutes on her first hit? What new place did he get to? Go ahead. Explain it to me. Please….

[NOTE: For any of my fellow Shangs’ aficionados, this link contains an intro I’ve never heard before, plus the extended finale that I’ve linked in the past. It’s the story that never ends.]

Actual Nominee: Steppenwolf. Is Biker Rock really a genre? Is introducing the phrase “heavy metal” to the world enough, in and of itself, to ensure enshrinement? I’m not sure, but if either of these be the case, Steppenwolf should be voted in immediately. Just in case it’s otherwise…

Dream Ballot: Lee Michaels. Why not? If we’ve come this far down the where-can-we-find-more-White-Boys-to-nominate road, aren’t we just messing with people? (Alternate pick: The Guess Who.)

Actual Nominee: The Cars. Cheap Trick got in last year and it’s nice to see to see Power Pop getting some love. The Cars were probably also the most successful New Wave band after Blondie (already in), so I’d always consider voting for them. However…

Dream Ballot: Raspberries. If you really started and/or mainstreamed the Power Pop thing (to the extent that somebody was going to be forced to give it a name), and if your best records are better than anything the thing produced afterwards (well, except for the Go-Go’s maybe), and your front man was the biggest single talent in the whole history of the thing, then shouldn’t you be first in line?

Actual Nominee: The Zombies. I like the Zombies plenty. But the depth of the Nominating Committee’s love for them is a little odd. A few great singles and a cult album (Odessey and Oracle) that has traveled the classic critical journey once outlined by Malcolm Cowley (it boiled down to everything now underrated will eventually be overrated and vice versa) is a borderline HOF career at best.

Dream Ballot: Manfred Mann. Especially if you include all its incarnations (and after the  Hall-approved Faces/Small Faces induction, why wouldn’t you?), the never-nominated Manfreds are more deserving on every level. The first version made greater singles and more of them. The second version morphed into Bob Dylan’s favorite interpreters of his music and, along the way, made an album (called The Mighty Quinn in the U.S.) which sounds better to these ears than Odessey and Oracle ever did. Then the third and fourth versions (called Chapter Three and Earth Band) became long running jazz fusion/classic rock troupers. (And yeah, I love their “Blinded By the Light” in both its single and album versions. We all have our heresies.) Mann’s greatest genius was for discovering standout vocalists to sell his concepts every step of the way. And, whatever gets played from the stage of next year’s induction ceremony, I bet it won’t be as good as this…

Actual Nominee: Tupac Shakur. If this is going to re-open the door for pioneers like Afrika Bambaataa or LL Cool J or Eric B. and Rakim, then fine and dandy. They’ve all been on the ballot before. I hope they won’t be forgotten in the coming years, when pressure to induct more modern hip-hop acts grows and when five will get you twenty the Hall’s obvious but never acknowledged penchant for quotas and tokenism remains firmly in place. Still, for me…

Dream Ballot: Naughty By Nature. Yes, even above all the rest. I still think “O.P.P.” is the greatest hip-hop record. I still think “Mourn You Til I Join You,” is the greatest tribute record in a genre that has required far too many. I still think “How will I do it, how will I make it? I won’t, that’s how,” is the finest rap line, (just ahead of Ice-T’s “How can there be justice on stolen land?”) Plenty of early rockabilly stars made it in on less (and deservedly). So sue me.

Actual Nominee: Yes. Prog rock. Yes, of course. That will be very useful in the days to come. Most helpful.

Dream Ballot: Fairport Convention. This year, of all years, we really should find every excuse to listen close. Admittedly, next year promises to be worse.

Happy Holidays ya’ll…Don’t let the Grim Reaper get ya’!

PATHS TAKEN…AND NOT TAKEN (Found In the Connection: Rattling Loose End: #88)

I should have lots of good stuff coming this week (including thoughts on the latest batch of Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominees) but, whilst I’ve been ruminating and polishing, I came across this photo, which, speaking to lost worlds as it does, is way too good not to post.


One of the many things I like about it is that, if i hadn’t already known it to be a very early photo of someone who would become famous, I might have guessed she was bound to become famous.

The road she would take is already in her face.

So are a hundred others she might have taken, any one of which would have led to something extraordinary.

Movie star maybe.

Or Queen of Nashville.

Or Manson girl.

You never really know, of course, what you might have guessed (or how far beyond embarrassed you might have been at being wrong). Hindsight’s twenty-twenty.

But I really wish this had come without a caption, the way I bring it to you now, so that I might have spent time wondering.

Just in case you didn’t have any more luck than I would have, trying to guess who it actually was…here she is on a piece of the path she took that actually got suppressed. Probably so she wouldn’t take over what was, at that moment, the greatest and most talented rock band in the world.



Since I had nearly all of Al Green’s Hi albums on vinyl it was only a few years ago (about the time I started sleeping in my den, where the modern stereo equipment is) that I decided to collect them on CD. The best, cheapest way to gather them up was in three four-album, two disc collections, issued by the oldies’ label Edsel, that put two albums per disc, in chronological order.

And what’s happened now is what often happens when things that used to be separated, mentally and physically, are run together and recontextualized.

It’s now possible, perhaps even spiritually mandatory, for me to hear Green’s first two LPs, Green is Blues and Al Green Gets Next to You, as a single expression of the broadest ranging, most penetrating vision of American vocal music anyone had put together since Green’s hero, Elvis, arrived at RCA in the mid-fifties. Hearing the albums separately all those years (and not really listening to the first one that much because it’s mostly covers and there is only so much world and time), I just thought they contained a lot of great music…and that Gets Next to You was the greatest southern soul/funk album anyone had ever made.

I haven’t changed my mind about the latter, but the total vision didn’t come clear until last night when I was listening on headphones to the first two-fer for maybe the tenth or twelfth time and I finally registered that Al Green, then twenty-three years old, had just gone Late Beatles, Gershwin (the last two cuts on Green is Blues), Early Beatles (a bonus track from the same sessions), Temptations (the first, monstrous cut on Gets Next to You). More than that, he had fully re-imagined every one of them, and turned every one of them into something larger and grander.

Later on, he would do much more–throw in Hank Williams, the Bee Gees, Lulu, a bit of Bo Diddley here, a bit of James Brown there and a world or two besides. Everything really. The size of the world.

Elvis’s truest inheritor then. open to everything and up for anything. It might not be purely coincidental that he walked away–back to the church his father had kicked him out of the house for turning his back on by blasting his Elvis and Jackie Wilson records–two heartbeats after Jackie was in a coma and one heartbeat after Elvis was in his grave.

And it’s all right there in the almost beginning:

I’m sure the world would have taken greater notice, made him something more than a southern soul star who crossed over and got raves at Rolling Stone and the Voice (rare enough, but nowhere near his true measure), if he hadn’t been a black man destined to make his records for a small southern label that depended on him for its survival.

It’s no use me blaming the Yankee heathens this time, though. I should have known better years ago.

Mea culpa.


The most common criticism, then and now, of The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, the concluding film of Curtis Hanson’s great “modern malaise” trilogy (picking up where The Bedroom Window and Bad Influence left off), is its “implausibility.” That criticism isn’t unfounded–yes, it’s highly implausible, especially the set-up–just misguided.

What’s more implausible than modernity? And what’s more real than the stuff you couldn’t possibly make up?

In a world where identities are exchanged on an increasingly ad hoc basis, often with dizzying speed (some colleges now ban “he/him” and “she/her” from their orientation material as too constricting–might hurt someone’s feelings), why would a woman who blames another woman for the deaths of her husband and unborn baby not try to take that woman’s husband and children away from her?

I write a lot about artists maintaining their relevance to the future by sensing the air. I also mention from time to time that pop artists–singers and pulp genre story-tellers in particular–tend to be better at this than the highbrows who aim to last the ages.

So call Hanson high-pulp if you want, but let’s not forget he had a real genius for this stuff. This movie doesn’t work as well as it does a quarter-century later because the old stranger-in-the-house script is done with more panache than usual (it is, but that’s just box office mojo–this was his breakout hit and no doubt the reason his next two films, The River Wild and L.A. Confidential, both steps backward, featured massive budgets, big name casts, and not much else beyond competence and his unerring eye for composition). It works so well because Hanson’s feel for the disquiet lying under the placid surface of modern suburbia puts tension in every scene until the standard letdown of a box-office mandated denouement. Put another way, it works so well because, up until that moment, he and his excellent cast have spent more time evoking Patricia Highsmith than Alfred Hitchcock.

Nothing’s ladled on then. It’s all as banal and meticulous as you would expect in a horror thriller set in the safest, freest place humanity has ever provided for itself–not just America, but Seattle! The early “happy family” scenes drip with real malevolence, which only intensifies when Rebecca De Mornay’s character shows up as a woman wearing a mask that won’t peel off.

It’s only the happy ending that keeps this from being a masterpiece.

The key to the rest is that De Mornay–nobody’s idea of a great actress, though, having been on a mini-marathon of her films lately, I’m beginning to wonder why–pulls off the miracle of making her psychopath both interesting and plausible. (This latter despite the script letting her down on occasion. Not even Hanson could resist that inevitable scene, here played in a greenhouse bathroom of all places, where the psycho goes off alone and smashes things just to remind us of who they really are. That scene’s more jarring than usual here, because, for once, it isn’t even necessary for the slow people.) She’s cat quick, cat smooth, and cat vicious. When she twists a little boy’s arm or torments a mentally challenged handyman or murders a woman who’s caught on to her game of nanny’s-come-to-take-over, you can see how she might get away with it…if this weren’t a Hollywood movie.

And it’s that element that remains unsettling, no matter how many plot twists you see coming.

Everybody else is just doing what they’re supposed to do. Kind of like “real” life. It’s De Mornay, no doubt helped by Hanson’s considerable gift for mood, who gets under the skin of the plot. You know she isn’t going to make it out of the final scene because it ‘s a movie and movies are, by and large, there to comfort us. That was as true in 1992 as a hundred years ago or now. But against all that is the sense that we can all thank God this is only a movie and not, say, a Patricia Highsmith novel or life in this world where we’re really only as free as we are safe, and how free is that when your worst nightmare is only a trip to the gynecologist away?

Compare this movie to any week’s headlines and you might be reminded just how easily the skins of our safe, free worlds can not only be penetrated, but ripped away.

Because in those worlds that aren’t protected by Hollywood money (and despite the sense of sin I noted being all over Hanson’s Bad Influence in an earlier post being muted here, never allowed to breathe in a single image or stray bit of dialogue that might give the devil’s presence away) De Mornay’s Peyton Flanders–an invention of her “Mrs. Mott”–would rule a lot more than the cradle.

She might even make you like it.

Especially if, instead of running about swinging a shovel at everybody’s head, she decided to just sit quietly and keep reminding you how much of it was your own idea.



RESTLESS KIND (Found In the Connection: Rattling Loose End #86)

Patty Loveless has been semi-retired for about seven years (her last album, a work of genius some marketing guru decided to call Mountain Soul II, was released in 2009). She shows up at the Opry once in a while, takes a session vocal for a friend here and there, does a live number with Miranda Lambert now and again. That’s about it. A few weeks ago, she dropped in for a Country Music Hall of Fame celebration and sang a couple of standards.

The first is “Crazy Arms,” and, of course, she nailed it.

But on the second number, Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces,” she used a voice I’ve never heard from her and, despite the spotty sound, did something I’ve never heard anyone do, which is add something vital to one of Cline’s signature songs.

In the introduction, she also says she’s never sung it for a live audience before (surprising, given how often she’s covered classics in concert and how frequently she was a go-to session singer for anybody who wanted to capture a classic country sound of just about any type across three decades)….It starts at 5:35, though I recommend the whole thing.

Genius never rests…or just never quite lets you rest.

All of which means that if she came back tomorrow, she’d be just as much a shock to the system’s rawest nerve as she was back when.

THINGS I HAD FORGOTTEN (Segue of the Day: 10/16/16)

Bad Influence (1990)
Director: Curtis Hanson

Masquerade (1988)
Director: Bob Swaim

…Or maybe never noticed.


Rob Lowe as psychopath, James Spader as nebbish. These days, they would probably swap roles.

My “entertainment budget” these days is about ten bucks a month…in the good months.

This month I went for a cheap two-fer DVD on Amazon that was some sort of Rob Lowe pack. I wanted to catch up with 1990’s Bad Influence again in the wake of Curtis Hanson’s recent demise and I had a sort of fond-twitch response to the memory of Meg Tilly in 1988’s Masquerade so I opted for the cheap packaging (no extras and so forth) and the two dollars I saved by buying them on one disc.

It turned out to be a good deal and a good decision. What with dark days ahead (they’re coming, no matter who or what we “vote” for next month, I predict this knowing no one will remember if it turns out otherwise and I’ll be able to remind everyone if I’m right), I found it oddly comforting to be reminded that, in the days when it was first obvious that Reaganomics were never going away (late eighties or so), the spirit of decline was already seeping into the air caught by these two oddly effective thrillers.

As for what I forgot…With Hanson’s film, it was his sense of sin, a quality almost unheard of in modern America or Hollywood filmmaking of any era. James Spader’s nebbish descends readily into Rob Lowe’s artfully arranged hell because he doesn’t want the things he’s supposed to want…or doesn’t want them enough.

Or thinks he doesn’t.

It’s never made obvious so there’s a lot of undercurrent for a thriller to carry. Plus, Spader was in early days.

He has the gravitas, though–the innate ability to portray modern life as, above all, soul-numbing. I still didn’t quite catch Lowe’s reasoning for picking Spader from the bunch. He gives one–somebody paid him to. But who it was evaded me. Maybe I’ll catch it next time. Because there will definitely be a next time, if only to relive Lowe’s “I’m sorry!” which is delivered in the exact tone you would expect from a modern pol, if one were ever trapped like a rat and forced to admit he/she had left some bodies lying around.

Which brings me to what I had forgotten (or never noticed) about Masquerade….


…which is that, while it’s a decent enough thriller, the real reason to watch is Meg Tilly’s performance as a young woman whose beauty and wealth are exceeded only by her emotional vulnerability. That’s not an easy sell but she’s fine and convincing all around and there’s one truly remarkable scene where she actually acts during an extended sex scene of the sort that, even now, is almost always played as imitation porn. There’s no dialogue in the scene so she has to convey the character’s bottomless well of emotional need through nothing more than heavy breathing.

She does.

After that, I really, really didn’t want her to die, and I really, really didn’t remember whether she did. It’s to the film’s credit, and hers, that it’s an open question, even if the other twists and turns produced no surprises to either memory or the present.


Haven’t done one of these in a while. One has to take a break sometimes…but, as the world insists on turning round and the sun insists on shining, so to do the crit-illuminati continue in their ceaseless quest to rearrange reality…Ergo:

Elvis might never have been born, but someone else would surely have brought the world rock ‘n’ roll.

No such logic accounts for Bob Dylan. No iron law of history demanded that a would-be Elvis from Hibbing, Minnesota, would swerve through the Greenwich Village folk revival to become the world’s first and greatest rock ‘n’ roll beatnik bard and then—having achieved fame and adoration beyond reckoning—vanish into a folk tradition of his own making.

(J. Hoberman, “Like a Complete Unknown: I’m Not There and the Changing Face of Bob Dylan on Film” Village Voice, November 13, 2007)

Now that, “never been born” bit is maybe a touch too illuminating. It trades the subtler forms of thought control for wish fulfillment.

But as the world’s foremost interpreter of crit-illuminati speak, let me translate the whole thing for you.

Elvis is not one of us. (If we can’t make him go away, we can at least make that point perfectly clear!)

Bob Dylan…he is one of us!

See how simple that is?

One thing I’ve never been clear on is whether there is some sort of entrance exam required for either entry to crit-illuminati circles or promotion therein.

If there is one, I’m pretty sure extra credit must be given for being able to say stupid stuff about Elvis and Bob Dylan at the same time.

THINGS I LEARNED AT THE MOVIES BLOGATHON (Learning About Types: Janet Munro in Swiss Family Robinson)


I’m happy to be participating in the latest blogathon from Kristina at Speakeasy and Ruth at Silver Screenings. Please click on the link to visit their places and read as many entries as you can over the next few days. It’s always fun and enlightening!

The subject is “Things I Learned at the Movies.”


For me, this is a short list. The only people who ever taught me anything “at the movies” are John Ford and Janet Munro.

John Ford’s a book, or maybe a library.

Janet Munro is…well, something that can’t be found in books.

She’s my first movie love.

You learn a lot from your first movie love. Whether or not it ever connects to anything or anyone you encounter in the “real” world (hereafter, Realworld), it’s likely to leave a mark that never quite washes off.

When, exactly, Janet Munro put that mark on me is murky now. Looking up things on the internet, I see that her breakout film, Disney’s 1959, Darby O’Gill and the Little People, was re-released in time to scare the bejesus out of eight-year-old me in 1969. Sorry, but even if I’d been of an age for a first movie crush, it wouldn’t have survived the Banshee and the Death Coach. What I remember about the first time I saw Janet Munro was it was the last time I slept with my parents.

Later that same year, Swiss Family Robinson, which premiered December 10, 1960, two days after I was born (be sure to keep up with the serendipity here, there’s more than a bit), was also re-released, and my nine-year-old self saw it some time in 1970.

The second time I saw Janet Munro, what I remembered was the pirates.

After that?

Hard to say. My memory says the film was released again in about 1972 and I swear I once saw documentation to that effect. If so, the information seems to have disappeared down every memory hole but mine. That being the case, I’ll trust mine and swear I was eleven or twelve–that the eagerness with which I attended that second re-release not once but twice (unheard of in my youth as my parents were not big on either going to the movies or sending me with someone else, though they never objected if someone wanted to take me to a Disney movie) is not only fondly, but accurately, recalled–and a whole lot more interested in girls than I was at eight or nine.

All of which makes me now wonder how I really felt when my about-to-be first movie crush showed up…as a boy.

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In the hands of pirates, of course. Dreamland pirates–everything in Swiss Family Robinson is from Dreamland–but scary enough to mark the memory.

Whenever I started crushing on her, it probably wasn’t just here. I can’t even say, at this distance, if I knew she was going to turn into a girl. I can’t say if I knew it when I was nine and I can’t say if I remembered it at twelve. Maybe I was fooled the first time. Maybe I forgot the second time. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

In any case, I doubt I was much concerned. At nine and twelve, there’s such a thing as being caught up in the story and the spectacle. When Swiss Family Robinson came around, I was that.

Having rarely gone to movies in theaters, a condition that would continue until I could drive to them myself,  those I did see tended to make a larger-than-life impression, even in the crummy little second-run strip mall venues where most of my limited movie-going experience played out. Swiss Family Robinson made the biggest impression of all. It was the only movie I saw three times. It was the only movie I saw that was perfect in every way and stayed perfect in memory.

And then, that last time around–and the real reason I took, or badgered for, the rare opportunity to go on back-to-back weekends–was because, by then, I knew that, somewhere along the way,Janet Munro turned into a girl. The girl, as it happened.

From this (where I must have been catching on, assuming, you know, I didn’t already “know” or remember)…


…and this (and surely by now)…


…to this (which I’m not even sure would have done the trick, except that my first movie crush was an excellent actress, and, well, it was a plot point, what they call a “reveal” even in Dreamland)…


….and this (the part where my doppelganger, Tommy Kirk, aka Ernst, and his surly older brother, James MacArthur, aka Fritz, turned into gentlemen….at least until they started fighting over her)…


…and, finally, this…


…at which point my reaction, there in the cheap seats and the precious dark, was probably something along the lines of this….


…a reaction I would, as it turned out, have only twice in the “real” world, neither of which ever had a chance to lead anywhere, and which, I realized much later on, when the miracle of home video allowed me to revisit SFR, conditioned all my other movie crushes, too.

I never had cause to regret my Fate. If somebody had to be the first one who left me no choice but to surrender, I couldn’t have asked for better. Whenever it was that I realized “Bertie” was really “Roberta,” I thereafter made no distinctions. After the big change hit me, she was always Janet Munro to me, in this and every other movie I ever saw her in (including the sci-fi classic The Day the Earth Caught Fire, and her other great Disney movies, Darby O’Gill and The Third Man on the Mountain, where that lucky little so-and-so, James MacArthur, wasn’t quite so surly but just as damn lucky). At least she was Janet Munro whenever she wasn’t “the girl in Swiss Family Robinson.” That was a phrase that brought a smile and a nod to every male my age back in the days when I–never having seen either The Godfather or Walking Tall, the two movies everybody else named as their favorite in the early and mid-seventies whenever the “what’s your favorite movie” conversation started–would admit Swiss Family Robinson was it for me.

In the now forgotten days before it was memory-swamped by Star Wars that was an answer that always changed the conversation around, as in, “Oh yeah, I forgot about that one!” More often than not, the other kid would change his pick. A horse’s head in the bed was cool and all and Buford Pusser taking a baseball bat to somebody’e head even cooler….but they weren’t pirates, and they sure weren’t Janet Munro.

Well, Star Wars  did come, God love it, and I still think of it as that admittedly fun movie made by some guy who has never proved he watched any movie except SFR from beginning to end, because there’s no other movie where he’s filched every single element–though the cinnabuns he put on Janet Munro’s doppelganger, Carrie Fisher, were all his own idea–even if he no longer admits SFR director Ken Annakin’s name was the source of Anakin Skywalker, the only character who appeared in all six of the SW franchise movies Lucas was directly involved in. (I don’t hold it against him. Just shows he had good taste. But honestly he should come clean.)

It didn’t matter that, in Dreamland, where everything should go right, she preferred my doppelganger’s older brother to him…and, by  extension, to me. That extension still leaves a bit of a mark on me during every one of the not-infrequent occasions when I renew my acquaintance with the movie via the still-applicable technological miracle of home video. But in the end even that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that my doppelganger, Tommy Kirk, aka Ernst, aka “the one who didn’t get the girl,” turned out to be gay in Realworld and that he was left with a hellishly hard road to hoe as a result (about as hellish as you’d expect if that central fact complicated the transition every Disney kid, including Janet Munro, who wasn’t really a kid, found so difficult to make in even the best of circumstances).

It doesn’t matter that she was part of a grand tradition, invisible to me at the time, of the tomboy forced to live by her wits, which Disney had revived and/or invented with Glynis Johns surviving Henry VIII’s court in Annakin’s The Sword and the Rose and finalized by first turning Hayley Mills into the All-American Girl (she, like Munro and most of the other girls-next-door America has ever taken to its heart, was a child of show-biz…an English girl is fine, just so she’s a trouper) and then sending her all around the world.

It doesn’t matter that the tradition died with Disney (Walt, that is, not, alas, the corporation) and it doesn’t matter that Janet Munro (already in her mid-twenties when SFR was made) grew up.

It doesn’t mater that one Sean Connery has confessed that, on the set of Darby O’Gill and the Little People (also his breakout movie), she was the only actor who ever intimidated him, by virtue of being the daughter of Alec Munro, a Scottish Music Hall legend. Something along the lines of, if he didn’t measure up in the singing scene, he could never go home again.

None of that has ever mattered.

It probably does matter that she was who she was.

Scottish even if she was born in England (the way I was Scottish even if I was born in America–serendipity perhaps).

It certainly mattered that all that roughhouse show-biz training left her, in Annakin’s accounting, game for anything. That stuff shows and, at nine and twelve, a girl who can ride and shoot and climb trees and mountains is a catch no matter what other qualities she does or does not possess. And Janet Munro hardly lacked for those “other” qualities, which make a subliminal impression even a nine and a not-so-subliminal impression soon thereafter.

I don’t know if it matters that, on the set of SFR, when she was giving a performance in which no single element has ever broken down under dozens of viewings, she was severely depressed and already hitting the bottle that would help kill her–two days before my birthday–in the year I fell in love with her.

Serendipity can be as depressing as anything else in this world.

It’s only from this distance that I see how unlikely she was–that one twenty-six-year-old actress could convincingly play a fourteen-year-old-boy…


…and a sixteen-year-old girl you wouldn’t mind hiring for a babysitter…or taking home to mother…


..even if, one, two, three, she was capable of sparking, spurring and manipulating a romantic rivalry…

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..without ceasing to be a down-and-dirty action heroine…


…her own stunt-woman…




…or, as the reaction-shot glue in the greatest action sequence ever filmed (yes, Lucas lifted it from a jungle to a space-ship’s garbage bin…and, great as that was, he came short), the all-time Damsel in Distress…

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…in a sequence that otherwise involved Tommy Kirk and James MacArthur (again doing most of their own stunt-work) in a fight with a twenty-foot anaconda that I pray I live to see on a big screen once more before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

All that and, down at the very end, she had to let my doppelganger down. First hard (sometimes there’s no other way)…one, two, three

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..then, because the heart wants what it wants, even, or especially, in Dreamland, harder…one, two, three…

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…without letting Realworld girls forget they still wanted to be her, or Realworld boys–even those who saw themselves more in Ernst than Fritz–forget they still wanted to be with her, or Realworld parents, in that faraway land of 1960, which now may as well be 1690, forget they wanted their girls and boys to be like or with some version of her.







With or without the associations of a first crush, Swiss Family Robinson still has a Dreamland glow about it, which, for better or worse, modernity cannot disturb. Those involved felt it. Ken Annakin, the man who formed the bridge between Golden Age swashbuckler masters like Michael Curtiz and the best work of his own acolytes, Lucas and Steven Speilberg (none of whom were better than he was–with action movies, there’s no such thing as better than Ken Annakin), was exceptionally and justifably proud of it. Tommy Kirk, who survived hell and, with last year’s untimely passing of Kevin Corcoran, is now also the last surviving main cast member, has said it’s the movie he’d like to be remembered for and that he’s the most proud of.

Until James MacArthur’s death, they exchanged Christmas cards every year and signed them “Fritz” and “Ernst.”

On the great documentary and commentary track where I learned a lot of this, (they attend the special two-disc DVD that Disney put out a few years back–accept no substitutes), everyone seemed to have fond but not very specific memories of Janet Munro. In his autobiography, Annakin recalled her fondly as “the complete trouper, ready to try anything.” By way of proof he mentioned the only two occasions she complained.

The first was after he hung her off the side of an Alp in The Third Man on the Mountain (which I should mention here is the greatest mountain-climbing movie ever made…a lot of what Annakin did is the greatest, even if few remember or acknowledge it now). When she was finally hauled up, she said, “You might have padded the harness. I think I’ve lost both my boobs.”

The second was after she took a fall from a galloping zebra in SFR. She walked past him and said: “I don’t know why I do all these crazy things for you!”

That was the full litany of her complaints on two of history’s most grueling action shoots, on which there was next to no stunt-doubling and, of course, no CGI.

Scottish Music Hall was apparently a hard training ground.

I wish she and Annakin had been able to do more together. I bet that would matter.

More than that, I wish she had lived a longer and happier life, long enough, perhaps, to realize, as the other Disney kids did, that their best films are worth remembering and derive most of their iconic power and joy from the performances given by the best of them, among whom not even Tommy Kirk or Hayley Mills rank higher than her.

Sad as the passing of any person is at the age of 38, it is infinitely sadder when it was your first movie crush and she died in the year you fell in love with her and you are left with a forever-just-out-of-reach feeling–or perhaps illusion–that only someone with whom you were truly simpatico could have affected you so, here in the real world.