About Nondisposable Johnny

John Ross blogs from Havana, Florida. He works for a living so please don't take it personally if he doesn't get back to you right away.

INGRID’S JOAN (And Then There Was Hollywood: Eleventh Rumination)

Joan of Arc (1948)
D. Victor Fleming

Consider this a companion piece to my post about The Passion of Joan of Arc here…

Joan of Arc starts off like a trainwreck headed for nowhere and ends up going…somewhere.

The first half hour has everything possible going against it: The star, Ingrid Bergman, who had won a Tony playing the title role on Broadway (albeit there, as Joan of Larraine, it was a dual part, with a modern framing that was ditched for the film), is too old for the teenage Joan and too worldly for a French peasant village girl, even if she weren’t also an iconic, world class Hollywood beauty. The stodgy voice-over that was a plague of Hollywood’s Golden Age historical epics is dull as ever. Worse, the dialogue is devoid of wit or snap and the action scenes, including the assault on Orleans that made Joan’s legend, are staged with little context and less imagination.

A disaster waiting to happen then, or at least an excuse for a long nap…

Until it is rescued by Joan herself.

Joan of Arc is a sufficiently tricky character–or legend–to have defied definitive interpretation, whether on stage, page or film. To get the full measure of her, a narrative would have to capture the village maid inspired by voices, the improbable military genius and the clever illiterate, unable to sign her name, but fencing ably with her learned tormentors as she stands trial for both her life and her immortal soul, then wrap such disparate, often contradictory traits as all that implies, around a central, unifying persona.

This Joan does not come close to accomplishing all that.

It does not repeat the mistake of Dreyer’s silent masterpiece in selling the Maid’s faith short. But, for its first two stages–Joan’s village life and her rise to military glory–it goes too far in the other direction. Religious transcendence is never well understood by those who haven’t experienced at least some small version of it. If its paradox of liberation and awesome responsibility–suddenly you are called to save the world–has ever been fully caught on film, I’ve missed it. Certainly that does not happen here. Bergman was one of the screen’s greatest actresses as well as a luminous star–but through these early scenes she simply seems overwhelmed. Yes, Joan would have been frightened by visions that ordered her to do no less than save France. But she would have been exhilarated too. I’ve known God was on my side for perhaps five minutes in my life and those five minutes–bereft of grandeur though they may have been–left me sick to my stomach and ready to take on the world. I can only imagine what Joan felt, but I doubt it was either the benumbed humility that Bergman conveys in her village scenes or the flush-with-common-valor gung-ho of the battle sequences. There would have been a quiet, but abiding confidence in there somewhere, not mention a rush of exhilaration now and again. In this part of the film and the performance those crucial elements go missing.

But there’s always that third phase of the Joan narrative-the trial–and its interconnection with fifteenth-century realpolitik. Here, every writer has access, for once, to Joan’s actual words. And it’s here, as in Passion (where it’s the whole story), that the story, and the remarkable figure at its center, come alive.

I wouldn’t claim Bergman disappears into Joan. She’s far too strong a screen presence and far too obviously miscast as a physical type for that.

But you can, at least, feel Joan at her back, perhaps even whispering in her ear. Yes, this is how I would have played it….How I did play it!

And in these scenes, Bergman’s natural star power works in her favor. We don’t know much about what Joan looked like. But it’s safe to say it’s been rare for a woman to inspire as she did without having something or other that men, in particular, responded to, either with awe or fear or both. Bergman could hold her star charisma in check, but the inner light still shines. It might be more Sex than Faith, but here–in well written scenes that incorporate, but are not limited to, Joan’s actual testimony–you can see how close the two might have ridden together. That the script allows–almost insists upon–the idea that the Maid was tortured by rape or threats of rape in order to get her to recant her visions (the main purpose of her trial), does more to condemn her English judges (the acting rises a notch in these scenes, too–villain or hero, Hollywood always did do well by the Brits) than a thousand oily sneers or tortuous professions of profound belief.

In other words, the last half of the film works beautifully. Once the story is all Joan’s, rather than a screenwriter or playwright’s speculation, all the professional Hollywood spit and polish that made the first half a drag comes to its rescue. Joan herself couldn’t have asked for a better setting to deliver the careful, cutting phrases that have rung through the centuries.

All to the same tragic end of course and director Victor Fleming died shortly after thinking the film a failure.

That’s too bad. He and Bergman did not produce a masterpiece. But they did add something to a bottomless narrative that is one of the central stories of Christendom, one which, if it can never quite be caught entirely, still throws off flashes of lightning, be it in the starkest black and white….

…or the most glorious Technicolor.

I KNOW….LET’S DEDICATE A SONG TO FUTURE POSSIBILITIES….

…In this case, the possibility that one of the two major American political parties will find itself on the verge of extinction in the coming year. Sure, there have been promises of such for decades. The party in ascendance is always confident they’ve put the dormant party away for good!

And it never happens.

But this year has begun filled with promise. Heck it’s not even completely out of the question that both parties could be taking on water by November.

And, should that happen, I will renew this dedication with glee.

But just in case these yahoos let met down yet again, I want them to know how I’ll feel, no matter who’s sitting under the gallows come next week or next fall…Trump, Clinton, Mueller…I’m doin’ fine now, without you baby, or any poor sod who had faith in you….whoever you are.

 

 

TO MOBY…BY MOBY…FROM ME…BEFORE THEY MAKE US SHARE A CELL (Late Night Dedication)

…and to our times, where we’ve lived to see the day when someone who once made a great rock and roll record admits to also being a CIA asset.

Mind you, I’m not saying he’s the only one….Just the first one we know about.

And what I really love about his great record is that it sounds exactly like the kind of record an informant would make.

Play it Brother. (Uh, you don’t mind if I call you “Brother” right?)….I hope not, ’cause I believe you man…You should hear what they’ve been telling me!

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah.

Play it…

 

‘TIS THE SEASON….OF TRUMP (At the Multiplex: December, 2017)

I ventured out more than usual in December…mostly I just didn’t feel like staying home. But–and this is my idea of cheerful–you can learn things from watching the world die.

Star Wars: The Last Jedi (2017)
D. Rian Johnson

I don’t remember this shot from the movie, so it might be a publicity still. Either way, I’d say it’s a problem when the Wookie has more charisma than the human. Doubly so if the human is supposed to be the center of the new galaxy far-far-away’s multi-culti dynamic.

Given the size of that central problem–assuming any under-forties can still radiate star power (I don’t get out nearly enough to make a final judgment but, based on what I have seen, the signs aren’t good), it isn’t the under-forties who are now expected to carry the central franchise of the modern world, the one which, imagination having gone the way of all flesh, all others must extend or debunk the way mold either feeds on or destroys what it attaches to–it’s amazing that the Star Wars franchise still entertains, even if I can’t imagine wanting to see anything but the original trilogy again before I die.

And it does entertain. At least if you’ve become as good at turning your brain off as I have.

Since this is the only movie here that isn’t specifically about Donald Trump–or at very least Trumpism–I blame him for lowering our expectations. Seems to be the going thing.

Catch it in the theaters. On the small screen the effects won’t be nearly as overwhelming and you’ll be stuck with the actors, none of whom are named Harrison Ford (for that, you’ll need to catch the Blade Runner update, which is incomprehensible and fantastic). Carrie Fisher, in her last role, is reduced to Earth Mother status, the very ethos she shook off like dead skin in her life and the original Star Wars movies. Mark Hamill is fine and, except for a brief appearance by Benecio Del Toro, the only point of strictly human contact to be found. Laura Dern, playing Earth Mother to the thousandth power, and against whom I held no previous grudge, actually performs a miracle of physics by creating film history’s first Black Hole right there on the screen where her character should be.

Make that to the minus thousandth power.

If only I could make myself believe anyone involved took the whole “long time ago” part seriously and was issuing this as a warning….

Like I say, catch it in the theater if you can. Unless you have more money than Donald Trump, your television’s not big enough to overpower the senses and achieve the benumbed state where this works just fine.

The Greatest Showman (2017)
D. Michael Gracey

Featuring P.T. Barnum as…..Donald Trump.

Whenever I see Michelle Williams’ name in the credits of a mainstream movie, I hold out hope that she’ll find a way to blitz the thing, the way she does with nearly all her indie performances.

There was never a chance of that happening here. Though Wiliams gets to display her warm and lovely side this is strictly a showcase for Hugh Jackman’s Barnum. He’s in fine form and the movie’s theme is hardly without contemporary relevance. This is a shallow but effective portrait of a man’s dream and a land where bunkum is all. Master it, and it will get you all: women, money, fame, the love of the common people. Really, you could walk out of this and contemplate the century-and-a-half between our consummate national huckster’s prime and the new occupant of the White House’s ascendance and be truly bedazzled that it took so long for someone to take the final, logical step.

Big drawback: They went with period music.

Our period.

(NOTE: For an odd but possibly compelling double-bill, I recommend pairing this with Jackman and Williams’ other outing, an interesting little thriller called Deception, where he plays a manipulative terrorizer of women (and others) whose hand is bigger than her head. You don’t notice until he has to drop the mask of mere avarice and actually take hold of her. Ewan McGregor’s around, but, even at the center of the thing as the yob we’re supposed to identify with, he’s not too terrible a distraction.)

All the Money in the World (2017)
D. Ridley Scott

Christopher Plummer’s gotten most of the attention for stepping in to play J. Paul Getty, the oiliest oily capitalist in the history of oily capitalism, a part Ridley Scott supposedly wanted him for the begin with, when Kevin Spacey–for whom the part was clearly made and which it’s hardly a stretch to imagine he was born to play–was instantly Stalinized for being an accused pederast in this moment when any gambit that might bring down Donald Trump (no pederast, but he has bragged–on tape no less–about “pussy grabbing”….or hadn’t you heard?) is deemed worth deploying and talent be damned.

It’s not  a disaster. Plummer’s fine even though you can literally hear the lines he sort of mumbles snapping out of Spacey’s absent mouth and smile your way through the whole thing.

The real problem–and it’s not insurmountable either–is that the other actors, especially Michelle Williams, had to re-shoot scenes which had clearly been written with Spacey’s particular charm (the oiliest actorly smarm in the history of smarm…or acting) in mind. Worse, they likely didn’t re-shoot scenes where the Getty character isn’t present. So you have to assume that Williams (and others) spent half the movie we actually see acting against the absence of Kevin Spacey’s J. Paul Getty and half acting with Plummer’s bound to be antithetical take on the same man (or, if you prefer, character).

It shows.

But you know….it still works–as both thriller and character study.

The real tension isn’t in whether Getty’s kidnapped grandson is finally freed (and I was one of the millions who didn’t have a memory of how that all worked out, so the ending was news to me), but in whether Williams’ character (Getty’s estranged ex-daughter-in-law and the kidnap victim’s mother) will ever act out.

This is Michelle Williams, after all, the only working actor who knows what to do with that very kind of scene, or at least the only one who is willing to risk going there, time and again. And I was a coiled spring, waiting to see if she would, just once, get to turn the anger she usually directs at herself (and whether it’s the characters self-immolating, time and again, or the actress herself, time and again, is a mystery that wants solving), against an object worthy of her disgust.

And….

Well, it’s worth seeing the movie to find out, so I won’t spoil it for you. Let’s just say watching Michelle Williams work these kind of things out for two hours is never going to be a waste of time, even if it leaves you wondering if she will ever achieve the kind of stardom that would prove the world is better than me, Donald Trump or J. Paul Getty think it can be.

Darkest Hour (2017)
D. Joe Wright

In which Gary Oldman plays an aging, crotchety leader of a fractured party, out of step with his colleagues and every aspect of their shrewd statesman-like sense of decorum, but with an uncommon feel for the common man they can but envy and behold.

Winston Churchill keeps getting mentioned, along with contemporary phenomena like abdicating kings and Dunkirk and what not. But this is clearly the first high class movie (maybe the first period, I don’t do a good job of keeping up) about Donald Trump. I mean it could be a little bit about Harvey Weinstein–old Winnie did like to go about in his bathrobe and little else whilst dictating to comely young secretaries. But Harvey’s old news now, just another of Trump’s useful footwipes and hardly better off than Kevin Spacey or J. Paul Getty (who probably finds being dead and consumed by hell fire only a slight disadvantage over having to endure the presence of humans).

It’s a fine performance. If you accept that it’s this historical fellow Churchill Oldman is after, he’s got him dead to rights. He’s the spitting image. Sounds like him too. Nothing like Richard Burton on television way back, neither looking nor sounding much like the historical fellow at all.

Odd thing, though. You could watch and listen to Burton and imagine a despondent country hearing him say “Our policy will be to WAGE WAR!” and committing on the spot to doing just that, even, as actually happened, to the point of self-extinction. And you could imagine him–and them–understanding that the only choice left was already not between survival in any meaningful sense and extinction, but between extinction with honor or subservience in disgrace.

None of that here. The England this barely worthy Trump stand-in speaks to and for is hardly worth saving and it’s an even bet whether the filmmakers meant this England to stand for 1940 or 2017.

Fine job by the makeup department, though. And good work on the accent. Who needs thunder and lighting when you’ve got all that going for you?

Bravo!

TRAPPED BY A THING CALLED SEX (Denise LaSalle, R.I.P.)

Denise LaSalle’s life read like a book of the blues. Born Mississippi, moved to Chicago, recorded in Memphis (for a Detroit label), died Jackson, Tennessee.

Though she benefited from the space Aretha Franklin opened up in the American narrative when she came south for a brief session in Muscle Shoals, LaSalle carved out a space all her own. Her entire career–as singer, persona, writer (of her own biggest hit “Trapped By a Thing Called Love” and Barbara Mandrell’s country standard “Married, But Not To Each Other” among dozens more…the titles tell all)–was dedicated to the deceptively straightforward place where sex, love and obsession meet.

Her voice, measured but gritty, made those simple themes worthy of a lifetime of exploration and, across nearly five decades, there was no year she could stand when she couldn’t hit the road and pull a crowd in some juke joint somewhere. She probably deserved bigger and better than she got (and she was plenty big at times), but she was a rare talent in a style that, devoid of the moral authority lives like hers brought to it, no longer exists except in memory. The style doesn’t exist because, for better or worse, the lives don’t exist.

Time does that. Catches up, overtakes us.

Hey time….Catch this.

SMALL MIRACLES ARE STILL MIRACLES…(Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #126)

I always liked Olivia Newton-John but I also always wondered if her seeming absence of entitlement–evident from pre-fame early Australian TV cuts on YouTube to whatever her latest interview is–was a strategy. It’s a fair question of anybody gorgeous, blonde, eternally thin, with enough talent to become a superstar in the last age when talent was a prerequisite, whether always appearing just a bit awkward and uncomfortable in the spotlight you were born to inhabit is your personality speaking or a way into everybody’s pocket.

I always gave her the benefit of the doubt…while remaining aware that (a la Brigid O’Shaughnessy), she might have been counting on that from me.

Meaning, just once, I wished she would relax and radiate the joy she often conveyed on record in a live performance.

Just once, at 60, on the stage of an Australian charity benefit, with 63-year-old Barry Gibb–a fan for life–there to shade her from the the superstar heat, she did. I just discovered it on the way to something else. And it’s a marvel. God love ’em, they even made me like this song….

EAST AND WEST(ERN) (Book Report: 12/17)

Last month’s reading was an all-time great spy novel, a treatise on the “Custer controversy” and another of the Louis L’Amour novels I began picking up last month…All proof that the past never ceases to speak to the present and the present never ceases to ignore the past.

Judgment on Deltchev (1951)
Eric Ambler

Ambler was the twentieth century’s greatest spy novelist. He took John Buchan’s basic premise (ordinary Englishman caught up in larger events he barely comprehends: see The Thirty-Nine Steps) and wound it tighter, gave it more dimension.

Never more than here, in what might be his masterpiece (there’s heavy competition from any of the five novels he wrote between 1937 and 1940). Deltchev was his first novel in more than a decade and his first since the War.

The War had changed things. Though perhaps never as deeply committed as the typical idealist, Ambler had been what was known as a Man of the Left (i.e., pro-Soviet). He was soured by Stalin’s duplicity in his dealings with Hitler and wound up a Man of the West (despite being in his thirties, he volunteered for the Royal Artillery when the War came…as a private). Judgment on Deltchev is his judgment on the police state, one that rings truer and is far more entertaining than say, 1984. Perhaps for that reason, those who had followed wherever Stalin led never forgave him.

History certainly has. On a re-read, I didn’t feel this had quite the tragic weight of Dystopia’s two real stomach-punchers: Conrad’s Under Western Eyes and Nabokov’s Bend Sinister. But it still induces plenty of dread and–given the long arc of history no one could have foreseen with any confidence in 1951–may not be the lesser achievement for ending on a note of earned optimism.

Earned or not, Ambler paid a price. He was a different writer after Deltchev. He had stared into the abyss and the abyss had stared back. The Cold War had changed things, too.

Essential.

Custer and the Great Controversy (1962)
Robert Utley

Robert Utley is one of the great historians of the American West. This is an early work, basically an extended monograph on the cult of celebrity that rose around George Armstrong Custer and had already sustained for nearly a century when this was published.

Utley just about defines the term “sober historian,” so he’s a good man to tackle the legacy of Custer and the Little Big Horn Massacre.

That is was, for decades after, known as “the Custer fight,” is a testimony to Custer’s force of personality, living and dead. Very few commanders get their name attached as an honorific for leading their men into an unmitigated military disaster. The book is not after debating Custer’s military acumen (though Utley doesn’t short-shrift it), but simply detailing the steps by which Custer and his “fight” passed into legend. On that level, it’s hard to imagine a better treatment of the subject. It’s a book by a cautious and fair-minded man, and, despite its brevity, has more than a little to say about the ways in which history and myth are forever destined to shape each other no matter how often we tell ourselves we’re past all that.

Heller With a Gun (1955)
Louis L’Amour

An early effort and solid. I have no idea what the title means. Once I figured out no one named Heller was going to show up, I thought I might run into some old coot saying somebody or other (hero or villain) was “A heller with a gun!” That didn’t happen either so I’ll assume it was implied.

As per usual, the gunman–heller or not–is reluctant to use his gun, or to be drawn into helping tenderfoots (in this case a second-rate theatrical company barnstorming the wilds) who have bitten off more than they can chew and fallen in with bad company to boot.

L’Amour’s style wasn’t yet fully formed. But he could already pack a lot into a phrase:

Then one night when drinking, Forrest bragged. He knew what a reputation could do to a man, but he was drinking and he bragged. A tough puncher from down on the Pecos started hunting the kid to prove Forrest wrong.

They buried the tough puncher on a windy hilltop near old Tascosa...

It doesn’t get any cleaner or swifter than that.

Anyway, the basics are here and well-managed. Notable for a complicated love quadrangle which–against odds I had decided were insurmountable long before the denouement–sustains interest to the last sentence and works out beautifully. Never underestimate a pulp master.

ONCE MORE, NEVER LET IT BE SAID….

…That I ever let go of anything (yaddah, yaddah, yaddah).

From Volume 5 of my Vocal History of Rock and Roll category, Naked Truth Edition).

I don’t know if I just missed this the first time through (if so, I must have been really out of it because I’d of sworn I looked everywhere), or it’s just been updated recently. Anyway:

Then….

“Rock Me Gently” Andy Kim: The Apotheosis of the Apotheosis. By a former Archie, of course. (Would really like some help identifying the background singer(s) on this one!)

Now…

UPDATE: Wikipedia has come through: Carol Carmichael and Group/Company on harmonies….though it’s unclear if there was really a “Group/Company” or just a bunch of brilliant overdubs. In any case, staggering. She also reportedly did the harmony vocals on Albert Hammond’s “It Never Rains in Southern California.” Either would be enough for any soul to enter the Lord’s house justified.)

Because nothing was ever better than this….Literally, nothing.

NOW MUSCLE SHOALS THEY HAD THE SWAMPERS….(Rick Hall, R.I.P.)

…and, yes, they were known to pick a song or two.

But the reason the Swampers, and the little Alabama hole in the wall recording studio where they shook the world, were in Muscle Shoals was because Rick Hall, trying to make his mark outside of Memphis, without resorting to Nashville, fetched up there and set up the third point of American music’s great Southern triangle. Rick Hall was Fame Studios and Fame Studios was Rick Hall.

They both ended up being a lot of other things. A whole lot of people contributed. Mostly black artists and mostly white session men with a mix of songwriters, all trying to prove each other to each other in the classic Southern style while George Wallace’s Alabama (where Hall made a point of frequenting local diners in the company of Otis Redding and Wilson Pickett) tried to turn back the clock all around them.

But it was Hall’s vision and once he took hold of it Southern Soul and the world it was born to save were never quite the same.

It was from Hall’s place that the careers of Arthur Alexander and Percy Sledge and Clarence Carter and Joe Tex and Candi Staton were launched and those of Etta James and Aretha Franklin (specifically chasing Sledge’s success) were reborn. And that was just the tip of a mighty iceberg. Shamefully, he died without entering the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (can’t blame the voters for that one–nods to visionary producers and label owners are in the hands of the Hall’s own committee).

Doesn’t matter. I just got the playlist from the Entrance Commission at the Pearly Gates.

I’m hearing it’s the greatest night ever. Smoked Jerry Wexler’s entry party and they’re swearing even Berry Gordy’s gonna have to run to keep up…(The Wilson Pickett cut is live and not to be missed).

Hope your vision comes all the way true where you are now brother….Because it sure is lying in tatters down here.