Monday, December 15, 2008

How to Enjoy the Out-of-Doors

Any sort of wilderness region means a great deal to me, and I concede that this is a very inclusive statement. A fondness of the books of Edward Abbey is a byproduct of this. It also may be a by-product of my fondness for a novel that is that's enjoyable to read, or as the Anheiser-Busch company might refer to it: his books have "Readability".

Though I've trolled through many of his books, I hadn't until recently read his most famous work: The Monkey Wrench Gang. To give you some idea of what it is about, let's dissect one of the front cover:

Yes, that is the the work of Robert Crumb, the same artist who brought the world Fritz the Cat, Keep on Truckin', and the second wave of blackface. Of course, he also produced the famed "Mr. Natural," comic series, which if you've ever taken the time to read, makes for a great comparison to the book we now have on trial.

These covers are also similar in many ways, in that they don't tell the whole story. While you might assume The Monkey Wrench Gang is about four people creating havoc that hearkens back to the sort of fun T.E. Lawrence seemed to have had, and Mr. Natural seems to be about stomping, or perhaps more accurately kicking ass, your assumption would mislead you. In fact, they are both about sex, which for Abbey hearkens back to his previous work of fiction, Black Sun. For Crumb, it hearkens back to quite possibly anything and everything he has ever done.

That is of course, a rash generalization, but one that I wouldn't regret making. While the main drama of The Monkey Wrench Gang may be about a group of environmental defenders on various quests to, in turn, destroy those who have been destroying their wild living spaces, the side drama of varied relationships stemming from their little group tends to hold the same weight with a reader. In a lot of ways, this venerable constitution of radical environmentalists tends to lose sight of its objective.

The band of misfits meet, decide to take down the giants of construction that are ripping their wonderful lives apart, and then act. Adventure is everywhere, and so are the cops. Sure, it sounds a bit ridiculous, but it was 1975, so of course it'll sound ridiculous. What makes it still pertinent is the fact that ridiculousness still abounds thirty-three years later, as it always has, and the fact that crazy is a dying breed. It just makes you want to up-and-revolt, not in the picket sign sort of way but in the dumpster fire sort of way; not in the insult hurling sort of way but in the shoe hurling sort of way. Injury by association be damned, something has to be done. It was refreshing to hear about the good old days, whether or not they actually happened.

Unfortunately, two aspects of the novel tend to evolve as the story progresses. There is the backdrop of the constitution I described, but in the forefront, there are the four main characters and their various escapades. It's where the two intersect that problems occurred for me. While Hayduke, the lovably unorthodox hippie type member of the crew drives along the highways of the southwest throwing beer cans out into the desert, he has no qualms about preaching the good word of a pure natural world. Thankfully, the characters have the depth to actually ponder amongst themselves the audacity of what he does. Of course, this is no deterrent, and they're able to justify it by telling themselves they're destroying the roads, not nature. of course, our old friend probably wouldn't agree:


This type of predicament seems to pop up a good deal, and I was dissappointed not to have received an answer. But hey, who really does care? This book was strictly badass, and no discrepancy of morality was going to diminish that fact. Watching the group of bandits become increasingly audacious to the point of stupidity is something that I couldn't help but enjoy. It is incredibly easy to see how these four outdoor enthusiasts turned vandalists could become the poster children for the generation of preservationists, despite their moral shortcomings.

As with any Abbey novel, his sentiments are spelled out as clearly as possible, and as such, we learn he loves Jewish women, guns, and blowing things up, all of which he happens to know much about. This comes as no surprise, but it makes for some great tales. Thankfully, most men can relate to Abbey's tastes, and as such are bound to enjoy The Monkey Wrench Gang.




Sunday, December 14, 2008

Other Critters Worth Cash Money When Skinned



I sit down from time to time, usually after I've just accidentally killed one of the myriad deer roaming the New Jersey frontier, or gazed upon the mounds and mounds of garbage lining the streets of New York, and I let out a tear very similar to the one that only a truly downtrodden Indian can feel:



Then, I turn on Jeremiah Johnson, and I realize he's not crying about pollution-he's crying because Robert Redford led an army through his sacred burial ground. This happens usually once or twice a week.

Clearly, the genius of Sydney Pollack that would one day produce Dustin Hoffman in a dress was hard at work when he blessed us with this face plant into the wild west. Immediately, the audience is made aware of just how epic their experience is about to become with an overture that blows my mind each and every time. It speaks to me deeply and succinctly, saying "Goddamn your popcorn and your Raisinettes-if you so much as crinkle a wrapper I will shred your fingertips with a cheese grater". And I listen. I empty my bowels, put my film viewing robe on, dim the lights and restart the film.

After the overture, the song gets even better, and that's because now, instead of just the instrumental frontier music, we're given a frontier narration, about a young man who goes by the name of Jeremiah:


As beautiful a man as he might be, the Robert Redford we're supposed to be doing a character study on is not what one would call an impressive sight. Sure, it looks like he was in charge of something in the past with a cap as ridiculous as that, but for all we know he was a train conductor who decided that the pin he found in a thrift store in The Village would like nice on his hat. He probably has a hole punch in his shirt pocket like the rest of his NJ Transit team.

Of course, that must be why he can't fish, and the best luck he stumbles upon is finding a dead guy who happens to be frozen to a gun. Thankfully, he subsequently stumbles across Bear Claw, played by Will Geer, who happens to be completely out of his well-bearded skull. This is the point in the story where I would have opened my Raisinettes if the movie hadn't yelled at me earlier, but that is absolutely fine by me, because I get to bring my full attention to the short documentary on bushy beard growing that the Bear Claw related scenes become.

I have a thing for a good beard, which would explain my strange attraction to the entirety of the Lubavitch sect, and lumberjacks of all sorts. As such, I'm happy to say this is one movie that omits nothing when it comes to chin-dwellers. If I learned anything from the first act of this tale, it's that the best way to grow a beard is to fight grizzly bears, eat them, and then wear them as a hat, all the while believing you are one.


Now I have a character I can study. Any one person with facial hair greater than or equal to a Fu-Man-Chu is certainly worth observing. With the beard and the eccentric mountaineer training under his belt, Jeremiah is a whole new man. He's now free to wander the land without a constant fear of starvation, so he's free to work on the finer style points that enhance not only his survival, but my own ideal wardrobe. What mountain man would be complete without the above pictured bear boots, or a left-parted intentionally messy yet meticulously styled mop-top?


Not this one.

The movie gets a bit Hemingwayesque for a while, as Jeremiah begins to grow a couple of mute tumors. Not much is said, but when it is, you listen, and you listen hard. You listen so hard it hurts. And what you learn is that if you adopt a mute kid who just saw a mass murder, you can name him whatever you want. You also learn that Indian women make wonderful parting gifts.

At this point, anyone who watches this movies is sure to ask themselves "I wonder what this movie could possibly be about?" or "Is this even a real storyline, or is Sydney just messing with me?" and neither of these questions would be answered. The makeshift family settles down and builds a cabin, and when they're done, the same questions come up, and still no answer.

Just as you've given up all hope and accepted the fact that the cabin-building scene is probably the climax of the movie, thinking about how you should never have listened to the overture and eaten your popcorn loudly and sloppily, this fellow shows up:

And BAM-entr'acte. Thankfully, we get a moment to contemplate.

For some reason, Paul Benedict, who is dressed as a reverend and is presumably playing one, needs Jeremiah to desecrate an Indian burial ground. Jeremiah, having just removed his beard and with it his common sense, decides it would be most excellent to pull an Easy Rider-acid-tripping-in-a-graveyard act, and leads the reverend and his slightly larger posse right on through.

Skip ahead, and we find ourselves in the middle of an Indian-slaughter montage that makes the Rocky IV bearded Russian training scene look like child's play. And so Jeremiah lives. Lives are taken, friends are made, and beards are grown, but still he plods on. I don't think I've given away too much, because there is barely a story here, but I wanted to give a mood to the film that would entice you to see it, because yes, it deserves the attention it commands. Either way, it is certainly worth watching, if only for the beards.


(Note: this man is not in the movie)

Saturday, December 13, 2008

The Muscles from Brussels and Time Travel: A Study



Somehow, I missed the Timecop explosion that must have been ravaging the streets across our country in 1994 when this action extravaganza was released. Luckily, being part of the Verizon Fios family has its advantages, and I found myself staring into the Euro-mullet clad soul of that Belgian beauty Jean-Claude Van Damme last Wednesday night on some channel that probably shouldn't exist.

Before this lazy hump day, Jean-Claude had never really been a part of my life. Sure, I'd seen Streetfighter out of sheer obligation, and even been secretly aroused by the shirtless meditations and golden underwear scenes in Bloodsport. Unfortunately, and I say that with at least a little sincerity, the man's work just couldn't stick for me.

With those memories fresh in my mind, I entered the world of Timecop. Now, I must say I was immediately taken aback by the fact that I was actually able to understand the words coming out of Jean-Claude's mouth. I understand most accents, but Van Damme's had always been a struggle for me, and I usually had to half read his lips previously as he stressed silent syllables and added a "u" after each utterance of the letter "o". Luckily, he must have taken an ESL course between 1989 and 1994, because I found myself enticed by the film even when it was clear that there would not be a roundhouse kick for the next five or ten minutes.

Of course, this movie needs to begin with a brief explanation of time travel, because it's something a bit too deep for most to understand. Luckily, they had some snooty fellow explain it to me in the most simple of terms ("You can't travel to the future, because it hasn't happened yet"). I wasn't really paying attention, because I was too busy trying to visualize Jeff Goldblum dressed completely in black giving his Jurrasic Park Chaos Theory speech, which I thought would have been much more appropriate, and probably would have had me breaking out in cries of joy.


I was stirred from my daydream when I realized I was watching Jean Claude get violently attacked and not immediately arising to, in return, violently attack his assailant(s). This was a first for me. I was used to watching him jump right back, cheap shot or no. So, when he gets himself unconscious five minutes into the movie, I was a bit taken aback. How could he lose so early in the movie? We don't even get a great look at the thugs going after him-how could he exact his revenge and make them wish they had never been born?

There were no time for questions, only for holes in the plot. Jump (backwards) to 1929, where a man who clearly had just gone back in time moments before was recognized by everyone and had a job that would have taken someone years to be promoted to, or even buy his way into. Also, 1929 is apparently a time when people jumping out of windows to their death was not an action that warranted stopping your everyday life for. All that aside, I really still didn't understand time travel, and even if I had paid any sort of attention to that speech, I don't think it would have explained how a Belgian crime-fighter was just birthed by some sort of plasmic bubble into an office in 1929. But hey, I'm here for the senseless violence, not for coherence.

Luckily, senseless violence is what I get. But wait, laser guns? Why not some just some mixed martial arts badassery and tight pants? When a shootout starts in a movie and Clint Eastwood hasn't just been leering at someone for the past ten minutes of ocular close ups, I'm usually dissapointed. Timecop's gun battles were, as I could have easily imagined, fairly dissapointing. They all seemed to have a pleasant middle section of people getting guns kicked out of their hands or faces getting kicked out of their heads, but the kicking usually had to do with the disarming or arming of a person-no one was getting killed off by a well placed heel to the temple.

Of course, I was just as dissappointed by the design team and director (Peter Hyams), who made the mistake that anyone who makes a film set in the future makes-envisioning the world as completely absurd. Remembering that this is set ten years in the future, or 2004, I was happy to see that they hadn't thought to turn Washinton D.C. into the city of The Jetsons, but that was probably only because of a lack of budget. Certainly all cars in the 90's were ugly to a certain degree, but couldn't they at least hope for a brighter future, where cars had a shapelyness to them?


There was also the fact that they were voice-activated, meaning if you spoke at them with a heavy accent, they would quickly take you to your home or a Waffle Hut where large pale women will shower you with powdered sugar and Godiva chocolate. I'm very happy to say that with 2004 well behind us, we have yet to develop this technology, as its usefullness is very much in question.

Thankfully, when we look around 2004 a bit more, it doesn't seem so bad. Most things are the same, and even the sherriff from My Cousin Vinny decided to show up. From then on, things get a little strange, with various jumps back and forth through time, and the persistent warnings that the same matter cannot occupy the same place in time. Basically, all the various policemen and time travelling makes for some good old fasioned wise cracking. This kept me going throughout the rest of the film-without a little cop-cop/cop-bad guy humor, I probably would have just been confused and taken a mid-week nap. Instead, I paid attention enough so that I could pick up the story line a bit and figure out what in the name of all that is holy was going on.

I don't want to spoil anything for those of you who happen to have Fios as well, and will invariably see this at some point in you life, so I'll quit the story line in 2004, but know this-those who wronged him get their comeuppance. I viewed the entire movie, and I wouldn't even say I despised it. As much as I hate to admit it, it was a good Van Damme film, and you can take that to mean whatever you wish. Whether or not you actually watch it, I know we can all agree that there is a little something in that man that makes people want to stare, and that is something that Timecop is more than happy to let you do.


Preface

To explain a bit, I am writing this Blog for fun. I plan on reviewing the stories that are all around me, living here in New York City. Specifically, I want to let you know what I think about books and movies to avoid regionalizing this Blog. However, I was never one to pigeon-hole myself, so expect various other forms to pop up as well (TV shows, poetry, music, plays, anything that holds my attention long enough for me to form some semblance of a coherent thought about it). 

This is not a critique of new entertainment unless I happen to have viewed it. There is no expiration date on a good story, and I will not be so bold as to put one on a literary lambasting. In any event, enjoy.