Corner Store [2010)

I previously reviewed the Palestinian masterpiece خمس كاميرات محطمة‎‎ (Five Broken Cameras).

And we shall return to Palestine with another moving documentary.

Another masterpiece.

For this one we have a very perceptive American director to thank: Katherine Bruens.

But all of it would be for naught if not for a shining example of humanity: corner store owner Yousef Elhaj.

The occupation of Palestine can elicit such feelings of anger and disgust (as well it should).

But every once in a while a real kind spirit comes along.

And such kind spirits shame the despicable Israeli settlers and their vulture military even more so than the most vitriolic polemic.

Yousef Elhaj is such a person.

Sweet. Hardworking. Kind. Quiet. Patient. Hardworking.

And (big surprise) a Christian.

Here we see a different perspective from 5 Broken Cameras.

I suppose we are used to assuming that all Palestinians are Muslims (and a vast majority are), but it is interesting to see things from a different perspective.

Elhaj’s life in Bethlehem (occupied West Bank) was just as crappy as that of any Muslim living there or in any other part of the criminally unrecognized Palestine.

Another important point… Being Christian does not make Elhaj any less Arab.

Most importantly… Peace in the Middle East is possible because of people like Yousef Elhaj.

He is really a jaw-dropping personage.

So much sacrifice for his family.

7:30 a.m.-midnight.

Seven days a week.

A little corner store on Church St. in San Francisco.

And to see life in Bethlehem.

To see the hell of walls and settlements which the Israelis have erected.

The settlements encroach. The settlements surround.

Bethlehem is completely encircled by concrete structures which are too artless for even Frank Gehry to barf on.

That’s what settlements mean.

Don’t let the euphemism fool you.

“Settlements” are concrete apartment blocks built on stolen land.

That would be bad enough were it not for the ubiquitous (and racist) walls which stockade Palestine.

And yet we don’t see anger from Mr. Elhaj.

He isn’t shown at a protest.

He just wants his family to be alright.

And his main emotion upon seeing the decline of his home town of Bethlehem is sadness.

The Israeli gun towers. Turrets to protect the settlers. And to hell with everyone else.

The sadness as a business man is remarkable.

What made him leave in the first place.

Things weren’t just bad. They were awful.

And so he has been away from his family for ten years.

He could have brought them to the U.S., but our immigration laws are not written to think of people as people.

Rather, our laws reduce people to statistics.

Quotas.

I can only figure that Mr. Elhaj (as bad as things were for him) actually had it better than Muslim Palestinians hoping to start a new life in America. [Which is to say, Muslims in general are not in an enviable position at this time regarding their leverage in situations of immigration review.]

So let’s think about it…

Bernie Sanders might be a generally disposable candidate, but he’s gotten a couple things right.

When he talks about America’s strength being its diversity? He’s absolutely right.

It’s trite. It’s Democrat politics 101…but it is correct.

And Mr. Trump (whom I like)… Wanna see what walls do? Go check out Palestine. Actually get in the open-air jail. Don’t view it from a safe distance courtesy of the occupiers.

The walls are ugly.

Sad.

Pathetic.

Fearful.

Weak.

Mr. Elhaj has so much to teach us in this documentary.

You can succeed in America.

The opportunity is there.

It may not be pretty.

But when you’re coming from the hell of Bethlehem, it’s a walk in the park.

You do it all for your family.

Seven days a week.

For ten years.

-PD

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Trading Places [1983)

At one point in my life I could honestly say that everything I knew about business I had learned from the movie Trading Places.

This film came on TV all the time when I was a kid.

And it never failed to pull me in.

But back to business…it’s that one scene:

coffee, wheat, pork bellies, gold, and (of course) orange juice.

Ok, so I mixed up the order a little bit.

But that’s the “breakfast” of commodities which sits before Billy Ray Valentine (Eddie Murphy) as he is given a crash course in commodities trading by the Duke brothers (Randolph and Mortimer).

It always made a big impression on me…pork bellies.

And now as I descend from the halfway point of my MBA studies this film carries a richer meaning for me.

The gorilla comes with a bill of lading.

That’s not the type of stuff you catch as a six-year-old.

And I must admit that this film is all the funnier when the expletives are put back in.

And the nudity.

Yes, it was usually the sanitized version we saw on TV.

But maybe sometimes…on a special channel…the real version.

At any rate, this is truly an American classic.

Not least because it was produced by a true American hero like Aaron Russo.

Why do I call him a hero?

Because he stood up for something worth standing up for.

It’s no wonder.

Watching this film.

The agog camera views of the World Trade Center.

But let’s stick to the teaching tool at hand.

Trading Places was just that: a beautiful teaching tool.

In some ways, therefore, it is aiming at the same thing as Le Gai Savoir.

The particular argument at issue is the famous “nature vs. nurture” debate.

Perhaps my attempt to connect John Landis’ wonderful film to Godard is a bit of a reach, but there is real, American beauty at work here.

Consider, for instance, the opening montage of Philadelphia streets set to W.A. Mozart’s overture from the opera Le Nozze di Figaro.

Notice, if you will, the African-Americans playing basketball with a plastic milk crate attached to a piece of plywood…on a telephone pole.

There are some loving politics at work here.

What we have is a film about unity. Dan Aykroyd. Eddie Murphy. Black and white.

There was a positivity to many American comedies of the 1980s.

I remember hearing “feel-good” used as a descriptor for movies (particularly summertime offerings) more than I care to remember.

But they were “feel-good”.

Trading Places, however, is more than just a feel-good film.

It is a film with a conscience.

That’s what makes it timeless.

I’d like to imagine that Aaron Russo’s conscience was already ticking…ticking.

It wasn’t until later that he made truly political films.

I don’t want to attempt a more profound framing than this thing deserves [too late].

Suffice it to say that Trading Places is as applicable today as it was in 1983.

We may no longer bandy-about the word “yuppies”, but we still have Wall Street.

Perhaps the trading pits and quote boards look hopelessly antiquated now.

But so much transfers.

Exeter. Harvard. Winthorpe.

And, of course, kindness transfers. Jamie Lee Curtis.

So there you have it.

Trading Places is acerbic criticism on race in America. Racism. Opportunity.

Eddie Murphy will have you laughing your ass off.

This is truly an indispensable bit of 80s comedy…and so much more.

-PD

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SNL Season 1 Episode 19 [1976)

The show was really rolling by this point.

The sets are more elaborate.

The budget seems to have increased.

And the humor is worth it.

The cold opening (I’ve avoided that term for the first 18 episodes) is a killer.

Chevy Chase (of course) as Ronald Reagan…prefiguring the stilted-hip of Bill Clinton on Arsenio Hall by a decade and change.

What we learn…Chevy can actually play the organ. Some nice B-3 licks.

But the killer is Garrett Morris’ priceless contribution.

Like a silent film actor, Morris takes each condescending, racist jab from Reagan and grows more and more outraged…in such a believable Miles Davis kind of way (if we ignore the alto sax he’s holding).

What a start to a great episode!

Morris is in another high-art bit of humor later…for the fake donation solicitation Fondue Pots For Namibia. Yes, it sounds like the title of a Zappa song (or perhaps Captain Beefheart), yet it is Saturday night variety show humor from 1976 at its best. Bloody genius!

Some of the more elaborate skits are guest host Madeline Kahn as the “bride of Frankenstein” singing Leonard Bernstein’s “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story. Howard Shore and band are great in this skit (especially pianist/vocalist Paul Schaffer…of future Letterman fame).

Another amazing skit involves Dan Aykroyd as Richard Nixon. Rounding out this bizarre, vast set piece is John Belushi as Henry Kissinger.

Now for the bad. Carly Simon is godawful in her first prerecorded number “Half a Chance”. I mean, really godawful.

What is apparent over the course of the show is that Madeline Kahn was a much better singer than Carly.

At least Simon somewhat redeems herself on the ubiquitous “You’re So Vain”. It’s obvious Carly had talent. She has a great, soulful voice. Not sure what the problem was on “Half a Chance”. Perhaps it was the cheesy, out-of-tune, canned backing vocals. Also, the song is a clunker.

Alternately, I could listen to the line “…clouds in my coffee” from now till eternity. It has that 2 ou 3 choses que je sais d’elle vibe to it which is truly profound…the transcendental moment of spotting a microcosm in the mundane.

As The Mighty Favog said, “Talk to me…”

-PD

SNL Season 1 Episode 17 [1976)

Why do we review films? Why do we feel the need to write about that which is expressed as sound and vision?

And why, after experiencing the sublime, do we still get enjoyment out of the mundane?

Why, as in a society with classes or castes, do we persist in dividing art into high and low?

The former we call high art, whereas the latter is pop art (if even that).

We are often unforgiving.

After immersion in Godard (an ongoing activity for me), we somehow still need comedy.

Comedy lets us relax.

If we spend all day thinking, we want to have an occasional laugh.

And so today we are able to re-approach a show like Saturday Night Live by starting from the very beginning.

As an aspiring film critic, I seek to bring the same respect and passion to writing about television as I bring to writing about film.

I will be honest: I am not a big fan of TV.

Somehow television has often brought out the worst in humanity.

It’s a rather sickening feeling to let the constant stream of disposable culture wash over oneself.

And so I don’t subject myself to such.

The important point to make is that this decision doesn’t make me any better than anyone else.

It’s just simply a choice I make.

Now, how can one possibly come down from such a marbled column to discuss SNL?

Well, fortunately this particular episode breaks the fourth wall in a very unique way.

The host of this night’s show was press secretary to the president of the US (I refuse to capitalize that repugnant position) Ron Nessen.

This was the Ford administration.

Now. If you want to see a UNIQUE name, check out Nessen’s predecessor Jerald terHorst [sic]. What a mind-trip!

But back to that fourth wall…

Yes, the other Gerald (the big one…G-man) delivers Chevy’s line here. “Live from New York…”

This was an exceptionally bold move by a White House which had been lambasted mercilessly by SNL since the show’s inception. Particularly, Gerald Ford showed a strange side of himself by consenting to be taped for a couple of one-liners.

Strangest of all, however, is Nessen (as himself) interacting with Chevy Chase (as President Ford) in the Oval Office. It was the obvious skit to do. Aside from the rehashing of the “Dead String Quartet” to start the show, the first real piece was this one.

While some bits in this episode fall flat (“Press Secretaries Throughout History” comes to mind), in all this is a very solid episode.

Perhaps Patti Smith’s presence as musical guest had something to do with the fuck-off tone encountered here and there.

Let’s face it: SNL (though still called merely Saturday Night) had become such a force that the White House was forced to respond.

And their course of action?

If we can’t be ’em, join ’em. It’s the old Bugs Bunny phrase I heard a million times as a kid growing up.

What’s not good about this episode? Billy Crystal (still Bill Crystal at the time).

It’s almost good. It’s almost great (Crystal’s routine). But ultimately, it sucks.

Contrast this with the performance of The Patti Smith Group.

“Gloria” is powerful, but it’s a strange rip-off cover. It’s a rewrite. Almost a détournement worthy of Guy Debord and the Situationists.

“Gloria” works. The guitars are blaring loud. Patti Smith is a true persona here. Magical. Visceral. Pissed-off.

But “My Generation” works less well. And while it is juvenile and lazy, it still has the genuine energy which would inspire groups like Sonic Youth.

The Patti Smith Group is exciting on both tunes because it feels like they could fail at any moment. “Excursion on a Wobbly Rail” as Cecil Taylor put it.

Yeah. That was the name of Lou Reed’s radio show when Lou was a student at Syracuse.

No. Bill Crystal was no Andy Kaufman. Bill Crystal was just doing blackface here. Is it Satchmo? Miles? An amalgamation named Pops?

Importantly, it is evident that Crystal has talent. A lot of talent. It’s just that he’s not channeling it very well here. The blackface sans burnt cork doesn’t really become him. It’s lazy. Like Patti Smith Group’s “My Generation”. Crystal isn’t risking much.

Today, Crystal’s routine would probably be called racist. Yeah… It’s a little odd.

But Patti Smith comes out on top. “Jesus died for somebody’s sins/but not mine.” Wow…

On national TV. Long before Sinéad ripped up a picture of the Pope.

SNL was dangerous.

But it was also a gas.

Super Bass-o-Matic ’76.

Yeah, Dan Aykroyd took a step forward with this particular show.

Who even remembers Tom Snyder?

It’s of a different generation. Not my generation.

We dig back in the past.

And this show (SNL) is not complete without the REAL commercials.

I wanna see the Marlboro Man, ads for Scotch, plugs for cars that Ralph Nader found out impaled people upon impact. The good old days…

The FAKE commercials need the REAL commercials for the whole thing to work.

I’m thinking back to my youth. When Crystal Pepsi was lampooned as Crystal Gravy.

And so it’s a shame that corporate America couldn’t get together and celebrate their grossly dated marketing of the 1970s by being a part of these reruns. Same criticism falls upon NBC. Why don’t you give us a REAL glimpse of what watching this show in ’76 must have been like?

Some brands don’t even exist anymore. Who holds the copyrights to commercials for defunct products? That’s a lot of work just to give people a more realistic stroll down memory lane.

So it is instructive.

What you see on television today (the whole experience…especially the commercials) will be very quickly (QUICKLY) forgotten tomorrow. The mundane pieces will fade first. No one bothered to document them. Too pervasive.

And then the few gems somehow get lost in the digital landfill.

Gary Weis was way ahead of me with his short film set in a dump. Sanitation workers. Garbage men.

Don’t mind me. I’m just sifting through the detritus.

-PD

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The Great Dictator [1940)

The light of the mind is in truth not revenge.

I’ll say it again.

The light of the mind is in truth not revenge.

And so with a stark wisdom Charlie Chaplin stepped into a new realm with this film…a bit like John Lennon on his first solo album Plastic Ono Band.

You think the comparison is daft. Perhaps.

God is a concept…by which we measure, our, pain?

It’s just a maxim. Boiled down.

Axiomatic.

And for me…from Chaplin…it is:

the light of the mind is in truth not revenge.

The “unofficial” motto of the Central Intelligence Agency:

“And you shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”

I’m trying to up my game. As a human being.

Today. A small miracle. A secret.

The secret of the beehive.

Swarming with celluloid transferred to digital information.

1s and 0s. So that a particular defect in the print (a scratch on the surface) will always appear the same. Forever.

The Great Dictator.

I know. I should italicize. Like Benzino Napaloni. In the heel of Bacteria.

[That would be somewhere between the Hindu Kush and the Amu Darya river.]

But I digresseth…

The light of the mind is truth not revenge.

In truth.

And so before God and all people I verbally bow down and prostrate myself as a mere blob of unworthiness.

Day in, day out.

But today especially.

Maybe…

My spaces will be removed.

Poetry is inefficient.

And cryptic writing is so tedious.

Truth not revenge.

Which is to say.

Diametrically opposed to–

untruth and revenge.

[at the very least].

There’s nothing difficult to say anymore.

I used to consider the French and the Jews my favorite people.

And there is no reason to alter that.

Truth sans revenge.

A mind of reason.

Forever and a day you could read histories and become an expert.

On anything.

Any topic.

Matchboxes.

Bread baking in 14th-century Sweden.

I chose movies because they were young.

It was possible.

The breadth seemed traversable.

But the emotions in film can never be belted.

We cannot bale these emotions.

We cannot stack them and inventory them.

To side with a talking head is not evolved.

From David Duke to Louis Farrakhan.

And to gag every time we see Netanyahu.

Let us examine.

No. You are right.

People are dying.

But if we have the luxury to think,

then let us examine.

What Charlie Chaplin might have been saying.

Don’t watch the final speech on YouTube.

It will seem forced.

It is out of context.

You don’t see the psychic sweat.

Watch the whole damn film and then decide.

Muslims protecting Jews.

Jews protecting Muslims.

Bodily.

Stepping in front.

Yes.

It is not fair.

The jet planes.

Truth without revenge.

My son.

Daughter.

The great sobbing of the earth.

African-Americans protecting white people.

White people protecting African-Americans.

Fully.

You can never recover from slavery.

No people can.

And the best and brightest. The inventors of jazz. The marginalized intellectuals.

Truth not revenge.

Get the truth.

Know it.

Evolve.

Transcend.

Easy to say sitting in a little comfy house.

Not so easy homeless.

Words are so easy.

It is a crossroads.

Anti-Semitism is on the rise, they say.

And anti-Muslim fervor is also strong.

We overcompensate.

We err.

And so I say love the Jew.

Love the Muslim.

Love the black man.

Love the white man.

Listen to the women.

Love the man and the woman equally. As humans.

And the Jew and the Gentile equally. Equally. As humans.

Let the imagination of your heart run wild with love.

Feel what it might feel like.

When all those variables guide your life.

That you wake up each day in a category.

Russians and Americans in a moment.

Every nation which has previously spilled blood.

Every nation.

First nations and last nations.

Don’t be cynical.

My friend.

Myself.

A humble understanding of a few things and an openness.

To approach the new day with a more pure ambition.

-PD

3 Comments

Way Down East [1920)

David Wark Griffith. Perhaps it’s fitting that I return to my mission by way of this controversial figure. To ease your fears, my mission is cinema. Things disappear. D.W. Griffith. Histories become written on the wind. Sirk. Search. And the stream of consciousness carries us to the precipice. Will we go over with the orphans of the storm?

Ice floe. Sloe gin. Bathtub gin. Spinning jenny.

It was a different time. Lillian Gish. Smashing. Pupkin. Will we “go over” like the orphans? Well, the orphans would have to wait a year. But what we really have here is the Urquelle (the Q source) for 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days. It is a long, sad movie which ends with some of the most immortal celluloid ever printed. It was like watching La Roue by Abel Gance. Mercifully, 273 minutes would have to wait till 1923. Griffith gives us a mere 145.

It was Billy Bitzer behind the camera for this story “arbitrarily” set in New England. It is a bit like Ghost World in that it is universal (to a certain extent). Are we in Chicago or Los Angeles? It doesn’t really matter. Anyplace. But Bitzer, the cinematographer, was actually from this fictional setting. Griffith was the hick. From LaGrange (cue ZZ Top), Kentucky.

Lowell Sherman plays the villain. Lillian Gish is just simply stunning throughout.

The story is transcendentally sad. Richard Barthelmess is even a sad sack…until he becomes the unequivocal hero. Burr McIntosh plays the backwards Squire who is required to “see the light” multiple times over the course of this film. In his character we get glimpses of that stain upon cinema: The Birth of a Nation. But we also get the redemption of Intolerance. Those two films alone (not to mention this masterpiece) display the crux of the problem: Griffith cannot be written off as a bigot. Far from it.

If you know D.W.’s work only from that famous racist relic, then you only have a small portion of the plot. And yet, how do we explain that sad document? Sure, it was a product of its time, but is that the end of the story? The Birth of a Nation has endured as Griffith’s most famous film perhaps precisely because it is so repulsive to modern sensibilities. But once one sees Intolerance, it is as if the man had seen the light. Way Down East is perhaps the first feminist film. Yes, Griffith turned it around within his heart to that extent!

Seemingly. White River Junction, Vermont. You can go read the backstory. It is like François Villon‘s ink freezing in the inkwell. The shooting of this film is the stuff of legend. I can’t begin to wrap my head around the sets Griffith used in 1916 for Intolerance. It is nearly inconceivable to me how Griffith made the abomination that is The Birth of a Nation with a clear conscience. But by the time of Way Down East he had become a masterful humanist director. As improbable as it sounds, it is true to my eyes. This is not a biography of Griffith. I claim no expertise regarding his oeuvre. I merely urge increased engagement with his body of work. There is something there.

-PD

paulydeathwish

musician and film critic

Tag Archives: racism