Friday, September 15, 2017

I intend to broadcast from this ship 24 hours a day until the day I die. And then for a couple days after that.

If you haven’t learned by now, I am something of a rogue. I am not fond of playing by the rules, an, in most cases, I will find a way to, well, not BREAK the rules, but, rather rope-a-dope my way around an occasional rule. Call it a lifelong fascination with pirates, or Jimmy Buffett music, or, hey, both, but that’s who I am and how I operate. If someone tells me it can’t be done, it’s more like a dare…

I am also a huge fan of music. Almost any music. I have issues with a few sub-genres, but, for the most part, my music collection is almost as large as my movie collection, and just as eclectic.

So, when I first heard about a movie called Pirate Radio, I immediately zoomed in on it, and I am so glad I did.


In the mid-1960’s, the British Invasion had taken the world of music by storm, except in one particular place. Ironically, citizens of the United Kingdom were not privy to the very music their countrymen were making because the BBC was not allowed to play pop music. British youth had to buy their music on the sly and hide it from their parents, or find other ways of listening. Thankfully, there were a few pirate radio stations around that danced up and down the airwaves, bringing the music to the masses. In his case, the station is located on a ship anchored off the coast of Great Britain, and manned by a motley crew of DJ’s who kept the music going 24/7/365.


One morning, a small craft comes alongside the Pirate Radio ship to drop off young Carl (Tom Sturridge). He has been sent to spend time with his godfather, Quentin (Bill Nighy), who is the “captain” of sorts of the ship, allegedly to “straighten the young man out.” Quentin introduces Carl to the rest of the crew – The Count (Philip Seymour Hoffman, from our last movie), the ex-patriated American who is the star of the station; Simon (the always great Chris O’Dowd), a slightly awkward guy who dreams of finding romance; News John (Will Adamsale), who does news and weather; Dave (Nick Frost, of Coronetto Trilogy fame), who is extremely popular with the ladies; Angus (Rhys Darby), whom nobody seems to like, but runs a comedy show; And Felicity (Katherine Parkinson), a lesbian who cooks for the crew. Carl is left to room with Thick Kevin (Tom Brooke), who is just unbelievably stupid.


Quentin also announces that Gavin (Rhys Ifans), an incredibly popular British DJ who is making his return to the UK after an extensive “drug and music tour” of America, and he wants his crown back as THE HOTTEST DJ on the air. Quentin is making this move because a very conservative politician, Sir Alastair Dormandy (Kenneth Branagh) and his lackey, Twatt (… yes that is his name… played by Jack Davenport), have pushed a bill through to make it illegal or British companies to advertise on pirate stations. Quentin is hoping that adding Gavin to the line-up will drive listeners to donate, and others to challenge the law.

Carl is also introduced to Midnight Mark, the late-night DJ who rarely speaks on air, but somehow is deemed “the sexiest man in radio” because of his music choices, and an old hippie named Bob, who nobody on board really seems to know, yet everyone knows he is on board, doing… whatever it is he does.

Dormandy and Twatt manage to force another bill through to law called the "Maritime Safety Act," which outlaws all non-registered craft from British waters, which, in turn, basically, outlaws all pirate radio stations. They are due to be shut down at midnight on New Years’ Eve. While Dormandy, Twatt, and their families all listen to Pirate Radio and ready their celebration, Pirate Radio goes silent at the stroke of twelve, only to kick off, even louder, at 12:01 AM, defying the law, officially going rogue.

Pirate Radio lifts anchor and becomes a roving beacon of music for the UK. Twatt sets the British Navy to tracking them down. The old boat, though, is not used to all the stress of being driven about, and begins to sink. As Pirate Radio continues to broadcast, they send out a distress call to anyone listening that they need rescuing. Dormandy and Twatt congratulate themselves on defeating Pirate Radio, only to discover that hundreds of listeners have taken their own boats out to rescue their heroes, saving the music and the spirit of rebellion, forever.

I don’t know how many of you out there know, but, for almost three years, I did my own “pirate radio” broadcast with an internet station called Revolution Radio. It was some of the best times I have ever had in my life, playing the late-night shift, sometimes from 11 pm to sunrise the next day, given my insomnia status for the evening. We had one rule – play what you like, and what the people listening request, if you can. And, Lord, didn’t we do just that…

Part of my affection for this movie is based on those late nights, playing music from midnight to dawn, chatting with other non-sleepers, discussing the great music from every genre and time period. The other thing that makes me love this movie is the characters’ devotion to the music of the time. It’s not just music for them, it’s a mindset, a way of life, and the citizens of the UK knew that, and became their most ardent fans.

If the plot itself seems a bit far-fetched, it isn’t at all. The UK did, in fact, keep rock music off the airwaves of the BBC, deeming it “unhealthy to young minds and bodies.” The ship in the movie is based in part off one of the rogue stations that sat out at sea, beaming the music to the listeners. The boat in question, the “Radio Caroline,” spent years moving from point to point in the Baltic Sea, dodging British Navy vessels, getting supplies from local ports, and heading out into international waters where they could broadcast freely. As a matter of fact, much of the radio equipment seen in the movie was donated by the Radio Caroline and “Admiral” Robbie Dale, a long-time pirate radio DJ.

The performances in Pirate Radio are nothing short of great. Hoffman plays The Count much like he played every role he did, fully ensconced in his character, selling every line like he fully believes it. Nighy is so cool to watch as the hipster Quentin, not really sure what he is doing, but loving every minute of being the “rogue leader” of a band of merry men. It does seem a bit odd to watch Nick Frost without Simon Pegg beside him, but he is a scream, playing like the ultimate ladies’ man with his Buddy Holly glasses and just-a-bit-too-tight shirts. Rhys Ifans, I have come to believe, could make any movie he is in just a bit better by being in it. He is so interesting to watch, his movements, his line delivery, it all seems so natural to him.


The two, though, that steal the show here are Davenport and Branagh. Davenport almost seems like he is playing a 20th century version of his role in the original Pirates of the Caribbean. His soooo-very upright public servant Twatt (heh… that name…) it’s like seeing his Commander Norrington role in Pirates in a new century. Branagh, though, just looks like he is having the time of his life, mocking every stodgy, ultra-conservative British politician he has ever seen or heard, all rolled into one political cartoon of a character.

And, of course, there is no need to discuss the INCREDIBLE soundtrack to this movie. You get a taste of every great bit of mid-60’s music, both British and American, and, more than once, you get to hear why these songs are great, in the character’s visions. Don’t sit there for a moment and tell me you’ve never sat around with friends, beers in hand, discussing why Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon is better than The Wall, or why Hendrix was the more consummate guitarist than Clapton, or who put more emotion into their singing, Barry White or Luther Vandross (… Barry White did… just saying…). It’s in these moments where the movie strikes home with the audience, these silly debates where nobody is going to change their opinion on music greatness, regardless of the “proof” being given.

Music reaches everyone differently, but it does reach everyone right in the soul. It’s movies like Pirate Radio that make you remember that fact. How far would you go to bring music to people starving for it? I did, for a while, and I will let you in on a little secret… it’s high time I started doing it again…  hint, hint…

My reasons for wanting to start my internet radio show again are based on a line Hoffman delivers near the end of the movie, when they are supposed to be shutting down the station because of the ridiculous law outlawing pirate radio stations. I will leave you with his line…

“To all our listeners, this is what I have to say – God bless you all. And as for you bastards in charge, don’t dream it’s over. Years will come, years will go, and politicians will do fuck all to make the world a better place. But all over the world, young men and young women will always dream dreams, and put those dreams into song. Nothing important dies tonight, just a few ugly guys on a crappy ship. The only sadness tonight is that, in future years, there’ll be so many fantastic songs that it will not be our privilege to play. But, believe you me, they will still be written, they will still be sung, and they will be the wonder of the world.”

Pirates rule…

P.S. If you go looking for this movie, it may be under it's British title, The Boat That Rocked... two titles, one great movie!! 

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

The Dude abides. I don't know about you but I take comfort in that. It's good knowin' he's out there. The Dude. Takin' 'er easy for all us sinners.

Every now and then, I come across a movie that just reaches into my soul and makes me proud to be a film fanatic. Usually, the film in question has a character in it that just makes me wish I had created it. I wish I had been the one to put the character’s words in his mouth, put his philosophy of life into his head, and given him every characteristic that made him so memorable.

I am constantly amazed by the number of times this has happened in a Coen Brothers movie.

But never has it been so true in almost every character in any movie. I have rarely just been taken away by virtually every character in a movie like I was the first time I saw the Coen Brothers’ The Big Lebowski.



Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski, played by the amazing Jeff Bridges, is the ultimate L.A. slacker. His world revolves around bowling, mixing the perfect White Russian, and smoking pot. One night, he finds himself the victim of mistaken identity when some thugs break into his apartment, pee on his favorite rug, and coerce him into paying a debt he doesn’t owe. It seems there is another Jeffrey Lebowski (Hollywood legend David Huddleston) in L.A., and the other one is a rich power broker, pretty much the exact opposite of The Dude. The Dude attempts to get some recompense for his ruined rug from his rich counterpart, only to be talked into a one-time job with a high pay-off. It seems Rich Lebowski has a trophy wife who owes a pornographer a ton of money, she may or may not have been kidnapped, and and it’s up to The Dude to deliver the ransom/money/payment.

The Dude has two bowling buddies, Walter Sobchak (Coen Brothers regular John Goodman) and Donnie Kerbastos (Steve Buscemi). The Dude talks things over with them, well, mainly Walter, and they decide Walter will accompany him on this drop-off. Needless to say, things don’t go as planned, and, before the whole adventure is over, porn king Jackie Treehern (Ben Gazzara), assorted nihilists, and Rich Mr. Lebowski himself all want a piece of The Dude’s hide.

If it sounds like I am not telling the story right, it’s because there’s really no way to tell this story without giving away the joyful madness that is The Big Lebowski.

Jeff Bridges has never been as much in his own element as he is as The Dude. He and John Goodman both look like they are having the time of their lives in their characters. Buscemi is constantly offering up platitudes, only to be told, constantly, to shut up (supposedly, this is a joke after Buscemi basically talked constantly through his last Coen movie, Fargo). Philip Seymour Hoffman does a wonderful job as the harried personal assistant to the Rich Lebowski. We even get Sam Elliott as a spiritual guru/cowboy who acts as the narrator/Greek chorus of the movie, and John Turturro (who is our link to the last movie) as probably the most disgusting bowler in the universe, Jesus Quintana. And let’s not forget Julianne Moore as Rich Lebowski’s insanely quirky daughter, Maude.

Everything clicks just right here. When you think this movie couldn’t get any more off-kilter, it tilts again. In this universe, everyone has a hang-up , an ulterior motive, or some sideline story that has to get added to the mix. And you would think the bowl would get too full after a while, but it never does. The Coens just keep stirring and the mix blends together. The more they stir, the richer the story gets. And the richer the story gets, the more laughs you get.

One of the things I love about this movie is The Dude’s mentality. Almost every time he opens his mouth, he says something that makes you wanna go, “Wait… what?” Most of his dialogue comes from things he has heard previously in the movie. He draws out these random quotes, and you laugh, then you catch yourself thinking, “…didn’t someone just say that a minute ago?” The answer is YES!! From overheard conversations to things being said by the President on TV, they find their way past the pot-fused haze of The Dude’s mind and into his lexicon, and even he has no clue how they got there.

And he has no care in the world, prior to the events that happen in this movie. He just wants to drink his White Russians, bowl, and smoke a joint or four. And his ultimate goal here is to get past all the crap going on and get back to those three goals. But folks just won’t leave him alone. And that is honestly what this movie is striving for – to get The Dude back to his life, without all the freakiness and panic, where Kaluah and half-and-half, a bowling shirt, and a joint mean more than whatever else his happening in the world.

There have been whole theses written about this movie. Classes are taught in philosophy, focusing on The Dude’s carefree mindset. I can’t sit here and force you to watch any movie, but, seriously, if you have never seen The Big Lebowski, you have missed a turning point in your life. That sounds like a joke, but, to be true to myself, I can tell you that The Dude, his words, and his goofy smile will find their way into your brain. And when you get stressed, freaked out, or harried, you will hear The Dude in your head, and, just for a moment, you will smile. And, at that moment, you will realize that you have joined the Dudism movement.


Welcome to the club, man… 

Monday, September 11, 2017

... another interlude...

... this was written a few years back, on the anniversary of the 9/11 attacks...  the song has been in my head all day...  thought I would share...

The End Of The Innocence…

Remember when the days were long 
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky 
Didn’t have a care in the world 
With mommy and daddy standin’ by 
But “happily ever after” fails 
And we’ve been poisoned by these fairy tales 
The lawyers dwell on small details 
Since daddy had to fly 
The End of the Innocence – Don Henley and Bruce Hornsby
I have spent a lot of time today in thought. Thinking about the last few weeks, thinking about this day eleven years ago…
My biggest memory of the 9/11 tragedy is the fact that I almost had no idea what had happened that morning.  I had driven home from work that morning, with sports talk radio playing to keep myself awake on the hour-long commute through Atlanta. The biggest issue of the day was the fact that Michael Jordan was talking about making a comeback or some such. Maybe he was trying to be a player/GM for the team he wanted to buy. I honestly do not recall the details, but I know that was all that was being discussed. The Braves were in a three-game slump, but nobody cared. MJ coming back to the court was the order of business. I got out of the car when I arrived in Lawrenceville at 8:35 AM, and nothing had been out of the ordinary.
I went into the house, dropped my messenger bag on a bar chair, leashed the dog, and took her outside for a walk. She did her business, I smoked a cigarette, and we went back inside. I sat down on the sofa and turned on the television. I put it on FX, which was just barely a channel then, but I was a fan because they showed MASH and WKRP in Cincinnati reruns in the morning. A good episode of MASH, one from the first season, was on. I ate my Croissanwich and watched Hawkeye and Trapper give Frank Burns all sorts of hell. The WKRP episode that came on after that was not one of the best ones, so I decided to go to bed. There had been no break-in to the program with any sort of news flash… nothing…
I got ready to go to bed after a long night at the hospital. I was tired, and I could feel sleep trying to move into my head. The phone rang. Normally, being a graveyard shift person, I switched the phone ringer off when I walked into the bedroom. This day, though, I had not gotten to that step in the process yet. I looked at the Caller ID to see if it was anything important. It was my sister’s number.
Even then I almost ignored it, but it occurred to me that she knew I was a night shift worker. She knew I didn’t answer the phone until 4 PM or so. So why was she calling me? It had to be something important, so I answered it.
“What are you doing?” she said, very tense. No “hey, what’s going on” or “didn’t mean to wake you”…
“About to go to sleep, why?”
“Turn the television on.”
“I was just watching it a minute ago. Why, what’s going on?”
“Turn the television on now.”
“What channel?”
“Any channel.”
It was the “any channel” line that freaked me out. If you tell someone to turn the TV on to see something, it’s usually on a specific channel. “Any channel” meant something bad was going on.
I flipped the bedroom TV on and knocked it over to CNN. Just as the picture came on, I saw fire blow through one of the Twin Towers. The other Tower was already engulfed in smoke. My sister gasped when the fire blew through the Tower. “What the hell is going on?” I said. “This can’t be real.”
My sister said, “God, I wish it wasn’t.” I sat silently on the bed, holding the phone to my ear and staring at the TV screen. “I need to go,” I said to her. “Call Momma and Daddy and tell them I am home and safe. I’ll call them tonight.”
She said she would, and I hung the phone up. And I did not go to sleep for the next 30 hours. It was like being mesmerized by some horrific sight and being paralyzed. Reports were flying all over the place. CNN Plaza was being evacuated in Atlanta. Capitol Hill and the White House were both being evacuated. Every plane in the air was being landed anywhere that could take a plane. The next targets were Las Vegas, Disney World, Chicago, Dallas, the St. Louis Arch. Confusion was coming from every corner of the planet. Who did this, why did they do it, who was the mastermind…
I remember calling the hospital I worked for and asking my supervisor if I needed to come in. She told me, “Stay where you are and do not move. Come in tomorrow night unless you hear from me sooner,” and hung up. I did exactly what she said.
The next night, I left for work at 9:45 PM, just like always. The world was supposed to be on complete shutdown, but there were a few folks out driving that night. Ordinarily, traffic going through Atlanta was less than the normal madness once the sun went down, but it was still a bit unpredictable. Tonight, though, I felt like I was driving through a ghost town. Skyscrapers were dark when they were usually lit up. The Peachtree Plaza Hotel, with its revolving Sundial Room high atop the building, was dark. Turner Field was dark. It was unnerving, to say the least.
But, the memory that stays in my head the most from that whole 48-hour period was driving past the airport…
Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta is notorious for being one of the busiest airports in the country. Planes never land on time, day or night. You see planes circling Atlanta for miles, waiting for permission to land. There is never a place to conveniently park because people seem to LIVE in that parking lot. The sky around the airport never looks like there is a nighttime because the sky is painted with landing lights, plane lights, billboard lights, and pretty much any other light you can think of.
But that night…
The airport looked abandoned. There were no lights anywhere, not even in the parking areas. No guide lights running lines across the interstate to bring planes in on a straight line. There were acres and acres of empty parking spaces. I counted five cars as I passed, still sitting in the lot closest to I-85. I leaned forward and looked up into the sky through the windshield, and what I saw made me slow down and pull over for a moment.
I saw stars. Twinkling stars in the sky. Nothing else. No moving lights to indicate planes circling overhead. No reflections of lights from the airport highlighting the clouds. All I could see were stars and a midnight black sky.
It was only then that it all seemed to sink in. Everything that had happened the day before. And what it had done to the world in only 24 hours.
I put the car into gear and got back onto the interstate. I had been listening to a CD on the drive down because the radio was only talk, but I didn’t feel like listening to music any more that night. The rest of the drive was quiet and, somehow, lonely.
I think about that night a lot. Especially when I have to go to the airport, or even if I just have to drive by it. It reminds me of the days after 9/11. Days of Americans pulling together, helping one another, pausing a bit longer to make eye contact with one another as we passed in store aisles or sitting at red lights. People took “America” a bit more to heart, and didn’t seem to care if their neighbors were black, white, Republican, Democrat, Christian, Jew, Chinese, African, or any other subtitle that goes with the word “American” these days. For a few days, maybe even a few weeks, hatred of one another took a back seat as we were bound together by sadness, tragedy, and confusion.
Then, the hatred crawled back into the picture. Suspicious eyes spotted evil everywhere. Anyone that did not speak our language, anyone that dressed in any manner other than normal American clothes, or anyone that just did not ‘look right,” became targets. I heard the phrase “those people” a lot. I hate that phrase. I always have, and probably always will. I have heard it in reference to any of ten different races and probably as many different religions, and it chills me to the bone. Why? Because my first introduction to the phrase came from a man handing out pamphlets at a crossroads in my hometown, inviting people to a Klan rally. It was a two-word phrase that dripped hatred, anger, and venom, even to a ten year-old kid.
On September 11, 2001, I was thirty-five years old. I had been married once, gone through a painful divorce, and had remarried. I had travelled to Europe, graduated college, had a couple of automobile accidents, broken several bones, made some really stupid choices in my life, and paid for those choices. But on September 12, 2001, I suddenly felt old. I felt frightened for the first time in my life, scared of what might be around the corner as a result of one event. My ‘inner child” had finally been scarred by something that would never heal completely. I look around now and remember those first days after 9/11, and wonder if anyone else remembers the short period in our lives when we didn’t hate, we didn’t scream and tag one another as ‘racist’ or ‘socialist’ or ‘communist’ or worse because we had different ideas. We rose above that because of 9/11, and became one, if only for a while…

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Maybe I put too much of myself into my songs...

So, let’s get back on track here with “365 Degrees,” folks, whattaya say? We spent some time off here in “365 Degree-ville” but the holiday is over and we got movies to talk about!

Now, I know you have been sitting there, thinking, “Now, how is he gonna link anything off of Army of Darkness?”

I must confess, my first thought was to go easy and pull one of Bruce Campbell’s cameos from his buddy Sam Raimi’s movies – Darkman being a personal favorite – but this was just too… predictable. But then I remembered another connection possibility. And it led to one of my favorite “nobody has a clue what this movie is” movies. Therefore, let me take you on a journey to a fascinating movie called Grace of My Heart.



Edna Buxton (Illeana Douglas) is a steel heiress who wants to be a singer. She enters a local contest, where she plans on singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” but, backstage, she meets a young blues singer named Doris Shelley (Jennifer Leigh Warren), who is belting the hell out of a song called “The Blues Ain’t Nothin’ (But a Woman Cryin’ ‘Bout Her Man)”. Doris convinces Edna to follow her heart and sing a song she really feels, rather than something safe. Edna does, singing “Hey There”, and wins the contest. She spends her prize money by cutting a demo record of her first original song, “In Another World.” Record producer Joel Milner (John Turturro) likes the record but tells her, bluntly, that she has no chance of making it because of her name, her background, and her gender. “Nobody wants a woman solo singer,” he tells her. He buys her record, retools it for a male group, and it becomes a hit. Milner gives Edna a new name, Denise Waverly, a fictional background as a blue-collar girl, and installs her in New York’s famous Brill Building, where songwriting was the name of the game for most of the late 50’s and into the 60’s.


Denise starts cranking out hits, getting little credit, but making a name for herself among the nototiously male universe that was songwriting. Denise finds herself involved with an egotistical songwriter (Eric Stolz), who constantly tells her that her work is substandard, yet still, her songs are hits while his are not. They marry, but she soon finds out her husband is more interested in other women than he is his career, and she leaves him, albeit with their child.

When the British Invasion hits and shuts down the Brill Building, Milner introduces Denise to Jay Phillips (Matt Dillon), the lead singer of a hot surf-rock group and pushes her to finally be a singer in her own right. Jay agrees to produce her work, and she records “God Give Me Strength,” a song she wrote that has strong personal meaning for her. The record flops, but she and Jay become an item. Jay’s drug use and creative genius alienate him from the rest of his group, and he isolates himself from the world, trying to produce the music he hears in her head. When Jay’s drug use becomes too much for Denise to bear, she leaves him alone. Jay commits suicide by wandering into the ocean and drowning himself.

Denise falls apart, blaming herself for Jay’s death, and takes her family and her old friend, Doris, to a hippie commune to fade away. Milner tracks her down, finally, and in  fit of pique, goes off on her for allowing herself to be manipulated by men her whole life, including Milner himself. He jabs at her for jumping from father figure to father figure, down to the guru of the commune. Finally, his jabs hit home, and Denise breaks, raging and crying, holding onto Milner for dear life as he smiles and comforts her, telling her, “Now, then… we got to your heart finally…”

Milner takes her home, and, in the final scene, we see her in the studio, recording and producing her own album, titled “Grace of My Heart,” the title of the song she wrote long ago, from her heart.

Now, if any of this sounds remotely familiar, it should. It has never been  made official, of course, but Grace is a thinly-disguised biopic of Carole King, the incredible songwriter who made her name in the Brill Building writing songs for many years, for groups ranging from The Ronettes to The Monkees, until she finally got the chance to produce her own songs for her own album, after being told for years that her voice was too “rough,” that her songs were too “personal,” and that she was not pretty enough to be a solo artist. That album became Tapestry, one of the best albums ever made (and before you challenge me on that, sit down and actually LISTEN to it – don’t put it on as background music while you clean house or cook, but sit and LISTEN TO IT… then challenge me… and you will lose… ).

Also, as fictional characters in this movie, you see Brian Wilson, in the form of Matt Dillon’s Jay Phillips and Leslie Gore, in the form of Bridget Fonda (who is our connection to Army of Darkness), as she plays a character named Kelly Porter. Phillips’ drug use and genius mirror Wilson’s long, dark journey to create Pet Sounds, an album that has to be heard to be fully appreciated. I have never really been a fan of Dillon, when it comes to his movies. He is very hit or miss. But director Allison Anders gets one hell of a performance out of him here. Watch the scene when Denise first sings her song "Grace of My Heart" for him. At the start, he is very put out because he really does not believe in Denise, but, as she sings the song, he begins to realize just how personal, and painful, the song is for her, and how brave it was to put that much of herself into words and music. He says very little in the scene, but his eyes, his movements, become a three-minute acting class, lesson being, "How to Act Like You're Witnessing a Miracle."

The character of Kelly Porter is a closeted lesbian, miserable in her world of secrets because, if she was true to herself, in the early 60’s, her career as a singer would have been ruined. When she confesses her secret to Denise, Denise writes a song for her that, while becoming a hit, is a beautiful nod to Porter’s true love, although it can be interpreted as being sung for a male suitor. Denise and Kelly form a bond as a result of this, and, in real life, Leslie Gore wrote several of the songs on the soundtrack for this film.

I was lucky to even see this film the first time I saw it. It was a literal accident, occurring because I flipped the channel to one of the, what, 200 channels HBO has now, and caught Turturro’s name in the credits. Generally, if Turturro is in a movie, I will watch it (at least, I would before he turned up in the damn Transformers movies.. now, I read up on what movies he is in before I commit my hearing loss to Michael Bay-version of Turturro movies…). But, damn, I was hooked from the moment I settled in and realized it was about music from the 60’s. I love classic rock, especially from the era of Brill Building-genesis music. They did so much with so very little, compared to computerized, vocal-changed, jacked-up bullshit that is the current state of most music today. The attitude then was simple – put singers in front of microphones, put six or seven musicians in the studio, and let them find their way to perfection. If it took twenty takes, so be it. Producers were sliding levels in the booth, finding the best sound from every note, and setting the tone for each song as they came. And it was brilliant stuff. Absolutely brilliant...

A few years ago, I was thrilled when Carole King’s music finally became accepted as genius, and Broadway welcomed King as a performer to be recognized when Beautiful: The Carole King Musical hit the stage. Her body of work, solo and with writing partners like Phil Spector (pre-insane version), Gerry Goffin, Cynthia Weil, and Barry Mann, among others, reached a new audience, and King finally got her due in another generation of fans.

Take a couple of hours and watch Grace of My Heart. If you still have any doubts, give these two songs a listen. Written by Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello, the first is a thing of beauty. Kristen Vigard does the actual singing, but Douglas sells the words like few could. Listen to the two songs I have included here and tell me you are not moved by them.



I have also included Elvis Costello’s own version of “God Give Me Strength.” I have been a fan of Costello’s for years, but nothing he has done has ever grabbed me and shook me to my soul like this version of the song. I have lived this song, and, in some ways, I continue to live it. And it is not often I can say this about a song written for a movie. Screw that damned Titanic song to hell… THIS is how a song is supposed to touch your soul…



 And for the record, don’t let anyone tell you women are not good film directors. Allison Anders cast this thing brilliantly, and Douglas, Turturro, and Damon have never been better than they are here. You may not have ever heard of Grace of My Heart before now, but I promise you, the movie and the music will stay with you for a long time… 

Saturday, August 26, 2017

Good. Bad. I'm the guy with the gun...

Now, let’s see… where were we? Oh yeah, movies… I know, it’s been an absurdly crazy couple of weeks for me, so I have to get caught up on things. I spent as much time as I could NOT walking on my left foot because of foot surgery. I love it when doctors tell you to stay off your feet, and the world says, “Yeah, not so much with that…”

So, between that, and pain meds, and a berserk schedule, my “365 Degrees” commitment faltered, but, hey, I can catch up and spend some quality time talking about movies, something I am always in the mood for. And I am usually always in the mood for horror movies above all else, so it’s doubly good that I start back by talking about Army of Darkness.


Let’s get this out in the open first. I LOVE the original The Evil Dead. I remember watching it for the first time and being blown away by what I was seeing. Stephen King proclaimed it the ‘most ferociously original horror movie ever made” on the cover of the VHS. Rumor was, it had been banned in Europe, which is basically like giving it an engraved invitation to my video shelves. And it was a complete FREAK OUT!!!

Now, remember, this movie came out in 1981. These days, you see a movie with a bunch of college kids heading off to a cabin in the woods, you can count on all manner of shit to go sideways. I mean, they even made a movie called The Cabin In The Woods, making full reference to how these movies go (trust me, we will be talking about CITW later on in this blog’s life). But then, seeing the insanity of reading the Necronomicon and what happens as a result was mind-blowing to this young horror fanatic. You would see something, and think, “That was amazing! Nothing is gonna top that!” and then, five minutes later, THEY WOULD TOP IT!

The Evil Dead built a huge following, thanks to home video. So naturally, a sequel was made. But it wasn’t an ordinary sequel. It was almost what we would call, these days, a reboot. It had all the craziness, but it had a wonderful comedic tone that set it apart from the original, and the cult grew even more. And at the end of Evil Dead 2, a time warp was opened, and we see Ash (the great Bruce Campbell) sucked into the void, landing in a strange wasteland we knew nothing about.

Thus came Army of Darkness, where we take up almost immediately where the second movie ended, with Ash and his lovely Olds Delta 88 and his freshly-amputated-and-replaced-with-a-chainsaw right hand, dumped into this strange new (old) world. As it turns out, the ceremony to return the demons to hell landed Ash back in 1300 A.D. He is immediately captured by Lord Arthur and made a prisoner/slave with Duke Henry the Red and some other warriors. Ash is thrown into a pit, where he defeats two demons and earns the respect of The Wiseman and Lord Arthur. The Wiseman declares Ash “the chosen one” to return the Necronomicon to the safekeeping of the kingdom, but Ash just wants to get back home to his housewares department at S-Mart and his girlfriend, Linda (Bridget Fonda).

When he is informed that the only way he can be returned home is through the use of The Necronomicon, Ash agrees, grudgingly, to travel to the land of the Deadites (I know, ain’t it great?) to get the book. The Wiseman advises Ash that he must say the special words “Klattu Barada Nikto” to safely acquire the book. Naturally, Ash, being Ash, forgets the last word and makes up some mumbo-jumbo, thinking that will satisfy the gods. Well, guess what, it don’t satisfy them one bit. The Deadites rise and declare war on the world, and it’s up to Ash to pull Lord Arthur and Duke Henry the Red together if they want to save mankind!

There is so much to love about Army of Darkness, it’s hard to decide what to share and what to let you find on your own. Bruce Campbell is in peak form this time out. He knows Ash, he IS Ash, and Campbell knows what people like about Ash, so together with his school buddy, director Sam Raimi (who played “Stick” in our last movie, Indian Summer), they let Ash loose to do his thing. And let me tell you, Ash became a demigod in the horror world because of this movie. Evil Dead 2: Dead By Dawn may have been the metamorphosis of Ash from horror movie hero to cult phenom, but Army of Darkness locked it in with one of those gates like Elvis had in front of Graceland. There are so many in-jokes from the previous movies, from classic sci-fi movies, you name it, it’s in here. Even Raimi’s precious “Three Stooges” slapstick gets a few turns in this thing.

I will say this – if you go into this expecting true horror, you are out of luck. This is a comedy in the broadest sense, with only a scant few scenes that could even remotely be called “horror.” But the fascinating thing is, for an Evil Dead fan like me (and a few bajillion others, it seems…), you don’t seem to mind that the series has crossed over into a more mainstream world. Sure, the first one was a supreme gross-out, wince-inducing classic. But, if Raimi and Co. had tried to do a sequel in that same vein (heh… vein..), it would have never worked the same way. It would have run The Evil Dead into the same ‘here we go again’ realm as the plague that jaded most of the Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street fans for a long time. Instead, Raimi used the sequel to re-invent the movie with outrageous bits of humor, building Ash into an almost-mythical superhero, with his wisecracks and cachphrases. Evil Dead 2 was the bridge, as it were, from the horrific masterpiece that was made legend by Stephen King’s endorsement and a cult following of fans. We cross the bridge and see a new version of horror, one full of fun and laughs and slapstick moments, and we walk into Army of Darkness, not knowing exactly what to expect. The results speak for themselves.

It speaks volumes that, when The Evil Dead got ANOTHER reboot, this time as the pure horror movie the original was, the best surprise moment was Bruce Campbell’s cameo at the end. Sure, the movie was a good watch, and it had all the elements, but it was almost mundane – until Ash showed up, even for that fleeting moment, and every fan was satisfied that this reboot could be considered part of the canon.


If you are new to the series, start at the beginning. The Evil Dead (1981), then Evil Dead 2: Dead By Dawn, and on to Army of Darkness. Watching the evolution of Ash, of Bruce Campbell, and of Sam Raimi as a director, is well worth the time you will invest. You will scream, you will hide your eyes, then you will chuckle, then you will laugh out loud. And you will love every moment of it. 

Groovy, baby…

Monday, August 14, 2017

.. an interlude...

The following was written eight days after my mother died. Tomorrow will be five years... sometimes, it seems like forever... sometimes, it seems like yesterday... "365 Degrees" will be returning to a regular schedule tomorrow, with some catching up to do... computer malfunctions, a ridiculous schedule, and coming foot surgery have all worked to postpone my writing schedules... for now, I wanted to share this with you one more time...

The title is simple... "I've Wandered Much Further Today Than I Should..."

Christopher Robin and I walked along
Under branches lit up by the moon
Posing our questions to Owl and Eeyore
As our days disappeared all too soon
But I’ve wandered much further today than I should
And I can’t seem to find my way back to the wood
So help me if you can, I’ve got to get
Back to the house at Pooh Corner by one
You’d be surprised, there’s so much to be done
Count all the bees in the hive
Chase all the clouds from the sky
Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh
Loggins and Messina, House At Pooh Corner
My mother passed away last week. She was seventy years old, barely what we know as ‘old’ by today’s standards. Cancer, however, does not pay attention to age. It does not pay attention to someone’s “bucket” list. It does not back off if someone’s agenda is too full, nor does it agree to come back later when things are more convenient. Cancer charges into the life of the patient and family like a rampaging beast trampling everything in its path, and leaving nothing but destruction.
When my mom got her diagnosis, we took the oncologist’s words to heart when he said “We could be talking years. We could be talking months.” We took some small degree of solace in the fact that we had some time, even with her decision not to attempt any sort of treatment. There were some treatments available, but with her medical history of pulmonary fibrosis, the treatments would likely have done more harm than good. Is it worth the cost of quality of life to gain, at the most, an extra month or two? My mother thought not, and we accepted her wish.
Whatever the oncologist’s words were, though, time became a factor. We only had twenty-three days from diagnosis to her death.  And, truth be told, she only showed true signs of the disease for maybe six days. The tumor had done the damage to her internal organs, and when those organs had had all they could take, they began to give up. Once the process starts, there is no stopping it. The final clock begins to tick, and all anyone can do is watch the hands move.
On that last night, I sat with her. I like to think she knew I was there. I talked to her. My sister and I both talked to her, asked her if she remembered the stories of our childhood, and tried to laugh at those memories, hoping the stories were making their way past the medications and the cancer, and into her heart, to bring her some peace. There were times when we would change positions around the bed, and my father would sit next to her, holding her hand, letting her know he was there. She was at her most peaceful when it was my father holding her hand. A portrait I now store in my head is of that particular picture – my mother, lying in her hospital bed, and my father sitting beside her, holding her hand.
I’ve had almost a week to think about my mother and her life. One of my favorite stories about my family is how everything started with her and my father. My mother worked for the dean of students at Oglethorpe University while studying there. One early morning in September, the dean called her and asked if she could go to the old downtown train station in Atlanta and pick up two transfer students from North Carolina. She did as she was asked and met the train. The two students would later become my godfather, John Day, and my father, Lee Daniel. My mom and dad became a couple a week or two after that meeting and were together for the next fifty years.
My mother was somewhat of a rebel in her time. The civil rights movement was just beginning to pick up steam in the first few years of the 1960’s, and my mother was a part of it. Not too many little white Southern girls thought much about people being treated equally, regardless of race, but my mom did. She never judged anyone with any regard to skin color, or religion, or ‘place in society.” She saw people for who they were, and the potential they had to be better. That became a mantra she served every day for the rest of her life – everyone has the potential to be great, if they are given a chance to find that greatness.
She started her professional career as a first grade teacher in North Carolina, but after I was born, she and my father moved back to Georgia when he accepted a job in Milledgeville. Much to the chagrin of my father’s mother, my mom took a job doing social work at what was known then as Central State Hospital. Most people know the facility by an easier term – the mental hospital. My mom started an adult education program at Central State, teaching female inmates how to read and write, and teaching basic skills like working a cash register and balancing a checkbook. There was not much in the way of childcare back then in South Georgia, so with no other choice available, she took me with her. My bassinet sat by the desk in her classroom while she taught murderers, drug addicts, and others of the ‘criminal element” that had been sent to the ‘crazy house’ instead of  one of the many state prisons. I have been told that the women were fascinated by the little ‘white girl’ who was not scared to bring her 6-month old baby to work with her. And I have been told that one of the rewards my mother gave her students for exceptional work was being allowed to hold me in their lap for the rest of the class time. My babysitters during her run as a teacher at Central State included a woman who had murdered her husband with a hatchet because he had beaten her, an older woman who was apparently very good with a straight razor, and a young girl who had helped her boyfriend kidnap a young girl from North Georgia and bury her alive. Some find the desire to comment on these early influences in my life, but I shall refrain…
The majority of her professional life, my mom worked for DFACS. Some scoff at the notion of the Department of Family and Children Services, waving it off as the ‘welfare department,’ and belittling the work done there to protect children. I will not get into a political rant now, because those who sneer at the mere mention of DFACS have no idea what actually goes on in that particular department, nor do they know the people that work there. Rarely do they even bother to find out…
My mother did Child Protective Service. She would step into a home where a child was being abused or neglected and find a proper placement for that child. Many times she would have an armed escort to these homes, either a sheriff’s deputy or a city policeman, but more often than not she would tell the officer to wait outside the door, and she would call out if she thought she needed protection. I have been told, much after the fact of course, about the times she stared down the barrel of a gun or had knives pulled on her. She stayed her course, armed only with her clipboard and her purse. Little did most of these people know, but my mother’s purse could have easily been considered a weapon of mass destruction, but those are stories for another time…
My mother never hid these stories of neglect and abuse from my sister and me. She wanted us to know it existed and recognize it if we saw it. We spent many a Christmas season shopping for toys for ‘her kids,’ wrapping them in beautiful paper and making sure each one of those kids had at least one gift under a tree, a tree that, in some cases, we also brought with us. It changed my outlook on the holiday, handing a child a present and knowing that one gift might be the only gift come Christmas morning. Seeing that moment, that light in a child’s eyes as the gift was accepted, makes whining about not getting the new Atari game system a lot harder.
We have heard from so many of ‘her kids’ in the past week, kids she rescued from situations that were horrendous to contemplate in many cases. The one phrase each one of them has used in conversations with my family is “She saved my life.” As I write this now, I remember one girl in particular, a case my mom worked with, fought the laws for, and finally rescued, almost at the point of no return. The girl was nine years old when her name came across my mother’s desk. She had gone to school with obvious bruises on her face and arms, but was not telling anyone at the school what happened to her. This was a kid from the “poor side of town,” a child most would not look twice at if she had passed them on the street. My mom talked to the girl at school for hours, and gradually she got the truth out of the girl. Suffice it to say that bruises and black eyes were only the tip of the iceberg of abuse this girl was living with on a daily basis. The little girl was taking this abuse on a daily basis because she did not want her little sister and brother to become the next victims. At nine years old, she was volunteering to do things most of us would not even know about until later in life and was being beaten repeatedly if she tried to refuse, in order to save her little sister and brother from taking the same abuse. I don’t know how the little girl’s parents found a lawyer to even try to argue their case, but they did. Over the next few years my mom would remove the girl, her sister, and her brother from the home and place them in Foster Care, only to have the parents somehow regain custody later. And within weeks of regaining that custody, the little girl would show up at school with bruises, split lips, black eyes, and assorted other signs that the abuse was continuing. I remember being in the car with my mom once when she had to pick the little girl up at school and take her to a doctor because her shoulder had been dislocated.
That little girl is now almost forty years old. My mom finally managed to get her and her brother and sister out of the home permanently. They were in foster care for a couple of years and were adopted by a family who raised them in an environment of nurturing love and care. She stayed in contact with my mother over the years. The ‘little girl’ now is married, has a family of her own, and credits my mother not only with saving her life, along with that of her brother and sister, but of also restoring her faith in others.
My mother was not a saint. Some saw her as an angel of mercy. I saw her as a human. I saw the tears she wept when she was not able to save one of ‘her kids.” I heard her anger and frustration when people tried to interfere with her job. One of the most notable times was when , as part of her job, she trained new foster parents and adoptive parents on how to bring abused and neglected children into new homes. In the late 1980’s, a gay couple showed up to start training. These ladies had been together for many years and had decided to open their home to children, specifically children who were born with the HIV virus. Yes, even in this small town, there were children with AIDS and HIV, and for obvious reasons, finding them protective placement was not the easiest task, especially in 1987. My mother welcomed these ladies into the class, got them trained and prepared for these children, and immediately placed three young children in their care.
Being a small town, most everyone knew the couple in question. And while ‘live and let live’ might have been an unspoken rule to most, when they showed up at church, or the grocery store, or at school, with children they called their own, the gossip began. Whispers turned to voices, and voices went from behind hands to loud shouts. My mother had always refused to make our home phone number unlisted, so when those who wanted to voice their opinion of these new foster parents and the ‘diseased children’ they were ‘parading around town,’ they called the person responsible – my mom. I was not at home much then because I was at college, but I was present a few times to answer the phone. I was never allowed to hang up on the callers, but rather, I was to simply say, ‘Hold on a moment,” and pass the phone to my mother.
One night, my mother got such a phone call. I recognized the voice as one of the many ministers in town. I did as I had been requested and handed the phone to my mother, mouthing the name of the caller to her as I handed her the phone. She shook her head, but she took the receiver and listened. She held the phone away from her face, so I could hear some of the conversation. Words like “godless,” “abomination,” and “curse from God” were used several times. The man accused my mother of being ‘in league with Satan’ for even letting these children “into the system.”
My mom listened to the man for several minutes without trying to speak. She took every word he said without arguing or trying to dispute his claims. Then she said, “You know, you are right. I had never considered that at all. I feel terrible about what I have done. Listen, the couple you are talking about lives about ten miles from me, right down the road. I can go down there now, pick the kids up, tell them that their service as foster parents is no longer welcome in this community.”
I am sure my mouth dropped open in shock. My mother NEVER gave up that easily, not to anyone or anything. She looked at me and winked.
“As a matter of fact, “ she continued, “if I remember correctly, your children have all moved out and gone to college or gotten married. Why don’t I just drop these kids off with you for the next week, so you can pray over them, make their lives better, and save their souls that I so wrongly put in jeopardy by placing them in a home with two women who live in sin, who are abominations in the eyes of God. It may take me a few weeks, though, to find a new placement for them. Can you keep them for two weeks or so? The baby is still in diapers, but you know how to change those, right? I mean, there are other problems with them, but I can leave you a book about handling their waste, not exchanging bodily fluids and such. You are a college man, though. I am sure you learn quickly.”
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Then I heard a lot of stammering and stuttering. My mom listened and then she said, “I know. I know. Do you want to keep these children? Does anyone in your fine church want to keep them safe, well-fed, and medically cared for on a regular basis? Because I can bring them to you or anyone else you name.”
There was another silence. Then my mother said, “Thank you for calling.” And she hung the phone up.
There was never another phone call.
My mother died at 6:00 AM on August 15th. The past six days have been a blur of tears, anger, and frustration. I tried to be angry at the fact that she did not fight the disease harder, that she gave in to cancer without even trying chemotherapy or radiation or any other sort of “cure.” But I know that those would have only brought more pain and suffering than what she had already gone through. I guess I wanted her to be furious that this disease had even dared enter her body and fight for her life like she had fought for so many other lives that had crossed her path.
Then I remember talking to her one night, right after she had gotten the diagnosis. I was asking her about possible doctors, second opinions, treatment options. She just kept shaking her head. I let my guard down and said, “Dammit, you’ve got to do something!”
She looked me in the eye, and said, “I did do something. Now, I’m tired.”
With those words, I knew my mother was going to die. And that it would be sooner rather than later.
A few days later, I was over at my parents’ house, visiting. My dad had left to run an errand or two, and it was close to time for my mother to get her next dose of pain medication. I got the pill for her, broke it into four pieces because she could not swallow much of anything due to the tumor forcing her stomach and esophagus into an angle that had it almost closed off. I handed her the pill, piece by piece, and I watched as her hands, once so steady, now shaking so badly she almost dropped the pieces as she got them into her mouth. And for the first time, my mother looked old. In a few short weeks since the diagnosis, my mother looked like she had aged thirty years. She looked old, she looked weary, and she looked beaten. I managed to keep my tears at bay until I got home, but just barely.
That last night, she was very restless and unsettled. She had not been responsive for two days prior. The only vocalizations she made were moans, with every exhalation. Around midnight we sent my father to bed, and I found a CD player to plug in by the bed, hoping some of her favorite music would somehow help soothe her. We played Alan Jackson’s “Precious Memories” because my mother loved old-school gospel music.
Music had always been an important part of her life. She had worked her way through college singing in the chorale at St. Phillip’s Cathedral in Atlanta. She sang loudly and with beauty, a talent I wish she had passed on to me.  There was always music in our house, on the radio, or the stereo, or by her singing to herself as she did what needed to be done in the home. So that night we played the music she loved. Gospel music, Celtic dulcimer music, Native American flute music… things to make her calm and soothe her soul, as we told her it was okay, that she could rest. We told her she could rest easy, and that we would take care of each other, that we could handle the job she had taught us how to do.
And my mom went to sleep with music playing. She found her peace with her music in her ears, and, I hope, in her heart.
As we sat that morning after she died, waiting on the hospice nurse to come to help bathe her before the funeral home men came, I noticed that, for the first time, the house was silent. The TV wasn’t on, nobody was really talking, and most of all, there was no music playing. And it hit me then that my mother was gone. I felt my throat tighten as that thought entered my head. My mother was not there anymore. Then, for whatever reason, in my head I heard music. I heard “Amazing Grace.” I heard Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair.” And I heard the song my mother used to sing to my sister and me when we were children, a song that may seem childish on the surface, but has gained more and more meaning in the last six days.
I heard “House at Pooh Corner” by Loggins and Messina, in my head. The song is about the A.A. Milne characters of Winnie the Pooh, Eeyore, Owl, and all their friends. But it is also about finding that childhood again, that sense of being a child again, when magic and dreams meant more than anything. My mother always wanted my sister and me to keep that sense of childhood about us, to never stop believing in dreams, believing in magic, and seeing the magic in every day of our lives. She never gave up on anyone’s dream, because she wanted each person in her life to have that dream to drive them. And she wanted us all to see the magic that makes the world beautiful, no matter how bad it may seem on the surface.
I will never hear that song again without thinking of my mother, and her love, and her pride in her kids. Not just my sister and me, but all those kids she saved, all those kids she helped live to dream a new dream. I can only hope that, one day, she will see my dream come true. She knew it was close to happening, and I had hoped to put a copy of my first novel in her hands.
Maybe one day, I will…

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Is it me? I don't remember it smelling this much like urine...

As summer winds down and the kids go back to school, it leaves us adults watching those back-to-school commercials with just a hint of nostalgia. While none of us were ever big fans of our summer being over, having to get back in the swing of going to bed early, getting up in the mornings, and having teachers seat us in alphabetical order, there was always a bit of magic about getting to pick out your lunch box for the year and deciding which supercool notebook would hold all of your Blue Horse notebook paper. Not so cool was the having to spend what felt like eternity in clothing stores, trying on new clothing at always seemed to itch, and being lectured on how you had to take care of that new pair of sneakers because “shoes don’t grow on trees.”

Even as a kid, I never understood the logic of that statement. I mean, hell, I knew that shoes didn’t grow on trees, they were made of rubber and cloth and had Chuck Taylor All-Star circles over the ankle bone. Imagine my delight, years later, when I found out there WAS such a thing as a “shoe tree,” and said as much when my mother broke out the quote again. I remember distinctly piping up with, “If shoes don’t grow on trees, what is a shoe tree, then?”

I don’t remember much after that, of course, but still…

Something else adults think back on is summer camps. Not the “one week and done” camps like we have today, but those summer camps where they picked you up in a bus on the last day of school, and you stayed gone for two months. Pretty sure those camps were thought of as “summer vacation for parents,” but…

One of my favorite “nobody has ever seen this” movies is about such a camp. It’s called Indian Summer.

Comedian Mike Binder wrote and directed this story, based on his own memories of summer camp. The story concerns a group of alumni from Camp Tamakwa. The camp owner, “Unca” Lou Handler (Alan Arkin), has decided to close the camp because attendance has dropped. Kids are more focused on sports camps, modeling camps, weight-loss camps, and the like, rather than learning about the outdoors, the environment, the wildlife, the things that have made Camp Tamakwa what it was for over thirty-five years. Lou has invited a group of his favorite campers back for one last week before he puts the locks on one last time.

The group has grown up, though, from their days as campers. Brothers Brad and Matthew Berman (Kevin Pollak and Vincent Spano) run a designer cap company. Matthew is married to Kelly (Julie Warner), whom he met at camp. Jennifer Morton (Elizabeth Perkins) is a successful attorney. Beth Warden (Diane Lane) is a widow, grieving the recent death of her husband, who was also a camper. Jamie Ross (Matt Craven) is a dot-com rich boy going through a mid-life crisis, including a barely-into-her-twenties fiancée (Kimberly Williams-Paisley). And Jack Belston (Bill Paxton, from our last movie) is a tree-hugging hippee who was kicked out of camp long ago for reasons that are still a little painful for everyone to remember.

The group comes back to Camp Tamakwa for the last week of camp, to remember their “good old days,” catch up on each others’ lives, and to possibly rekindle an old flame or two in the process. And, really, folks, that’s what this movie is. It’s about a group of grown-ups, called together by a man who was a father figure to them all, to remember their pasts, and possibly restore their present. Work tensions, marriage tensions, life tensions, Unca Lou has kept up with all of his “kids,” and perhaps hopes that Camp Tamakwa can work its magic one last time.


This is such a great film, folks. You almost feel like you are sitting in one of the cabins, listening to the remembrances, so much so you will find yourself having stories just like the alums pop into your head as you watch. Lou has the reunion scheduled just as he did when regular campers came in. He has them pass a swimming test before they can take the canoes out. He has a “Tamakwa-thon” scheduled, a ten-event sporting contest that happened every year. He has hikes planned, he has a dance planned. He even wakes them every morning, bright and early at 6 AM, by ringing the camp bell, something the alums do NOT enjoy remembering. And, of course, the alums have their own events – raiding the camp kitchen after a pot party, playing practical jokes (what they call “shrecks,” long before the word became associated with a big green Scottish ogre) on one another, everything you would expect from campers. And, of course, Unca Lou finds the time to offer his wisdom and advice as situations arise.

It’s usually around here when I talk about the supporting cast, but, honestly, there is only one other character in the movie, a wonderful dunce of a man named Stick Coder. Stick’s father was the lovable dunce back in the day, and Stick has taken up the mantle in the waning years of the camp. Stick is played by The Evil Dead’s Sam Raimi, who happened to grow up with Indian Summer writer-director Mike Binder, and Raimi is purely a gem to watch. If you have seen Raimi’s movies, especially Evil Dead 2: Dead By Dawn and Army of Darkness, you know Raimi has a penchant for goofy slapstick humor, even though he is primarily known as a horror director. Well, here, Raimi is pure slapstick comedy relief, and he makes the most of every second he is onscreen.

It would have been very easy to let a movie like this slip into mushy sentimentalism, one of those made-for-Lifetime or Hallmark movies that just makes you want to lay on the sofa and pray for the commercial breaks so you can maniacally flip through the channels to find ANYTHING else to watch. But Binder-as-director has all of his ducks in a row here. There are, of course, the flashbacks to the alumni when they were kids, and we see their tears, their embarrassing moments, but Binder-as-writer has kept the script tight enough to allow these moments to happen for exposition, then bracketed the scenes with some comedy or a nice segue, and they fit right in. It’s very obvious that Binder holds his memories dear to him – the movie is actually filmed at the real Camp Tamakwa, the camp Binder (and Sam Raimi) attended for ten years as kids. The character of "Unca Lou Handler" is based on the real man, Unca Lou Handler, who founded and ran the camp. In fact, the multi-color sweater that Arkin wears as “Unca Lou” actually belonged to the real Unca Lou. Binder wanted everything in this movie to be as close to his memories as it could be. Here, give Tamakwa a look as it is today...

http://tamakwa.com/

This is one of the rare times when an ensemble cast works as just that – a well-blended ensemble. When the movie was originally released, the trade papers compared it to other true ensemble movies like The Big Chill and The Return of the Secaucus Seven. While Indian Summer did not achieve the box-office or status of these films, it did earn quite a resurgence once it hit home video and pay-tv markets, enough so that it has become a staple at midnight movies and retro-movie palaces now.


Take a two-hour break from the hectic world, and relive your childhood through the campers in Indian Summer. You will enjoy yourself, and, maybe, just maybe, you will find some of that little kid inside you that our insane world tends to bury. I’d be willing to bet you that, once you meet that kid again, you won’t be so eager to let him or her get buried so fast again…