07.31.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 11:55 am by Gregory
People who have been really astonishingly nasty to me have appeared in my dreams lately. I have told them off in an appropriate manner, and chuckled as they’ve departed like defeated brats.
It is hard to have sweet dreams, though — when somebody is maniacally CLOMPING over one’s head.
(Before I bail on this insanely overpriced — and they just added severe insult to injury — dwelling, I really should get a Sennheiser boom in here — or possibly a Seismograph – to preserve the scary miracle of that old dude’s footfalls, as one would attempt to capture some evidence of Sasquatch; it really sounds like the codger gets up at around six, somehow lashes an oversized bowling ball to the bottom of each foot, ingests five hundred packs of No-Doz, and then chases invisible cockroaches for an hour. Really. For the past three years.
Any debt to crazy asses is paid.
Today involves loads of minutae. I just successfully paid my electric bill, for instance. Go me. And then I have to pack prezzies for lots and lots of people. My summer sleigh will be an Airbus. Etc.
When I paid that bill, the Actual Human Attendant (!) on the other end of the line said this to me:
“Thank you very much, sir — and may you have a totally fantastic day.”
Well…all right.
Brief Labyrinth reference: There’s that bit with Sarah and Hoggle in the catacombs, wherein Jareth suddenly stands up (and the audience howls appreciation for whatever that is stuffed in David Jones’ tights). Of course, there is a 13-hour clock conveniently located on the cave wall — which Jareth proceeds to speed up until Sarah has lost a few hours off her already mad and hasty quest. She declares this unfair. Jareth counters that he wonders what might be her standard for comparison.
Indeed: Me, here.
Tonight is another smashing night of the Mods and Rockers Film Festival. I’ll be there. Check it out!
I have been invited to partake of a semi-remote cottage for the Autumn months — no internet, no telephone land-line — however that may be a bit too much off the severely beaten path. We’ll see. Potential host notes that a major drawback is utter dearth of Thai food for many, many miles in any direction. Hm.
Speaking of Thai, a Chinese friend of mine who grew up in Thailand just sent me this. Astounding. Finally, YouTube seems to have some purpose beyond merely letting all the humans show all the other humans how unbearably cute they are.
(Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se — but it is getting a bit redundant.)
Go Ruminants!
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Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:11 am by Gregory
Ever have one of those nights? Presently everything is in pressure-cooker mode, plus I’m behind on several writing projects, plus what is normally a blazingly dull season in L.A. has turned out to be remarkably scintillating (if simultaneously almost-exhausting). I’m not money-rich (or, presently, even money-survivably-average), but I really have a great life; thank you.
Nonetheless, this evening it was with genuine chagrin that I glanced at the time whilst typing, thought it was the six-o’clock hour, quickly realised it was the eight-o’clock hour — and summarily slapped forehead in consternation-lite:
Tonight was the screening of a brand-new print of Labyrinth with Brian, Wendy and Toby Froud in attendance (at L.A.’s fabulous Nuart)!
I have attended many, many, many screenings with Special Guests — and have met Mr. Froud a few times before — but come on! Labyrinth! With its creators!
What was I thinking?
What was I stinking was more like it: It had been a hot, rough’n'tumble day (helped J.T. by shooting his audition-test video w/zany actresses down at the blindingly bright beach; munched trendy Raw Food after; not bad, not bad, not quite as pretentious as I’d figured). Errands, chores, bits of heavy lifting, and hot hot heat. By the eight o’clock hour my corporeal state was what would pass for normal in Germany, but it felt unclean to me. Okay…let’s see: Bathe, wash mop, shave? — no, no time for shave — then put on something presentable, run like hell to bus?
As there was still significant Trip Planning and Emailing and Whatever to do, all of this had me out the door at almost-too-late p.m. — and Les Frouds were set to hit the mics at nine-thirty.
We pause now to relate to you the brief tale of “Gregory and the Buses.” Gregory is okay with buses. He presently prefers them to the utter hell of automotive slavery. The thing is, though, whenever Gregory heads toward any street where a bus is due to come along pr’soon, that blasted bus always screeches past directly in front of Gregory — when Gregory is still one-to-two blocks away from that street on which the bus is (and where it shall continue to zoom along, sans Gregory). Every time. Not talking stats; talking every time. If this pattern weren’t so damnably frustrating, it would be fascinating. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with schedules (for they are as loose in L.A. as a wannabe actress’ resume) — rather, if, bus-street sight-unseen and schedule unknown, Gregory simply dashes like mad (for no apparent reason)…then he makes the bus. Otherwise, Gregory shrugs and glowers quietly and speaks to self in Amusing (To Gregory Anyway) Extreme-Underbite Posh Englishman Dialect (often about ribald topics).
Well, tonight I beat the odds. First I did that Dashing Like Mad For No Apparent Reason thing. Then the damned bus did that damned thing it always does (i.e.: showing up exactly one-to-two blocks in front of Gregory, when Gregory isn’t quite there yet, and would require a jet-pack to catch it). But I simply refused to be deterred. Even though I had already had some very enjoyable and productive words with Brian Froud down in San Diego last Thursday (that man really is a wizard), this particular Monday night had long been planned: Labyrinth with Frouds! — there are few things more enjoyable in the whole Universe.
I waved hard. I ran. I ran. I sprinted (safely) through traffic. I mean, like lightning. It probably looked either: a.) Ridiculous; or b.) Cool. The main thing is that I got my Jesse Owens on.
The driver saw me. She was nice. She told me I didn’t have to pay, and remarked that I was very lucky, because it would be about another hour before another bus would come along.
Magic.
(I paid anyway.)
I am loath to talk too much about my hair (due to recent semi-roast of popular writer who is rich and famous and does actually “blog” about his hair a lot) — however…people: Spend significant chunk of day at beach, let simmer for hours, then wash hair under incredibly hard L.A. tap water before realising that there is no conditioner left.
The knots and tangles were outstanding.
The young Japanese tourists on the bus found me interesting enough to gesture and offer a running commentary in Japanese. I moved.
Somehow I made it.
Magic.
The Frouds had just begun. They spoke affectionately of their beloved Labyrinth and answered many good questions. I’ll transcribe the thing sometime; it was interesting. My fave comments were: from Brian (that he built that show not from the Outside — via accountants and bureaucrats and penny-pinchers — but from the Inside — via an artist’s utter love for his art); from Wendy (that, at the time of the project’s pre-production phase, what she was “working on” was Toby); and from Toby (that Jennifer Connelly actually babysat him — shudder! — whilst his parents went out to dinner…and he wouldn’t mind repeating the experience now!)
The crowd, alas, at about 150, was not huge (I completely expected a sold-out house and tales of angry mobs wrapped around the block who were turned away in agony) — but Love was in the room. We love our Labyrinth, yes we do.
The Frouds adjourned to the lobby with fans (including me) so that the next screening could begin, and I was amazed, primarily, by three things: 1. La famille Froud foment glee via their very presence; 2. It’s a rather large world, and yet there stood the man (and his family) responsible for some of my fave design work (and spirit) in Cinema — ever; and 3. A semi-Goth couple waltzed in for the next screening, paused to hit the lavs, and never even noticed that the creators of the movie they were so excited to see were immediately in their midst.
I spoke awhile with M., who is just about encyclopaedic in his knowledge of film (particularly left-of-centre film) as well as being an awesome M.C. – and then I leapt into the next screening of Labyrinth just as its opening frames and first Bowie song began to fill the auditorium.
I figured I’d stay for ten, maybe twenty minutes.
I stayed for the whole thing.
I could go on and on about Labyrinth — but here I shall limit myself to five brief comments:
1. The audience cracked up loudly and knowingly for every shot featuring Jareth’s magical package.
2. I had never noticed before, but indeed, as Brian said, the beginning of the film features The Longest Run In Cinematic History: It starts to rain, and Jennifer Connelly runs all the way from England to America!
3. My own older sister hasn’t done diddley to protect me from Goblins (although she didn’t give me to them, either, thanks) — but once whilst visiting her on the other side of this land mass, I was drawn into a very, very tiny record store in a nondescript strip-mall — and there the CD soundtrack to Labyrinth called out to me (it really did — almost audibly). That CD remains a constant in what appears to be my ever-changing social universe. And this time, over cinema speakers, I really noticed that I like the songs a lot — particularly “Underground” (which used to annoy me; Faux-Gospel? In Fantasyland?)
4. Hoggle is accidentally called “Hogwart.” Hmmmm.…
5. Heck, since Gaiman and McKean accidentally didn’t make the sequel to Labyrinth, I shall. Call anytime, Lisa.
To put it finely: I would walk straight into the middle of a bullfight and loudly declare myself an aficionado (among many) of The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth (they’re both deceptively brilliant) — and thus tonight (despite the intense bittersweetness of a pretty new print of a movie from over two decades ago, yikes!) was a very, very happy night indeed.
(A few photos, soon.)
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Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 12:39 am by Gregory
I was wondering when this was going to happen; much like Leonard Cohen, Ingmar Bergman was one of those guys everybody assumed to be dead many years before actual death happened. (For the record, Cohen is alive and living in Los Angeles; he probably eats at Canter’s; Hello, Mr. Cohen — I think “Jazz Police” is hilarious!)
Anyway, the main point is that Ingmar Bergman — as of yesterday — is now actually dead.
Sad, that. He was one of our geniuses.
When I was staying in Stockholm over Jul, 1988 (that’s not July; that’s the local equivalent of “Christmas”), the father of my hostess gave me a book — in English — as a present. “A book about a famous film-maker and his MIND,” went his inscription. The book was indeed about just that: It was The Magic Lantern, Bergman’s autobiography. It was new at the time. I devoured it with sips of actual glögg (!), and then on trains.
(Astoundingly, on that same trip, my hostess and her family and I went to visit some of their relatives — who lived in the same building as Max von Sydow! I glanced at the tenant listings outside and asked; they confirmed.)
Anyway, somehow the book got away — which is weird because I tend to keep most books I like (and many I don’t like). I eventually got it in hardcover, though.
It’s a great life-story, full of all kinds of professional anecdotes but also childhood confusion and awkwardness, and stabs at finding faith, love, happiness, all that human stuff. Apparently this was harder to do in Sweden during the second world war (I refuse to capitalise that). Ingmar Bergman’s voice proves prickly at times, but ultimately nourishing.
Quite recently I sat through a screening of The Seventh Seal — and was amazed anew at how wise, creative and beautiful it is. In this sense, it blended with the best of Kurosawa in my mind.
A little while before that, in the same fine venue, I was able to view Bergman’s Saraband — which would turn out to be his final directorial effort. I was moved.
(I was also moved when Blake Edwards himself — at eighty-five! — showed up very recently to visit a full house happily viewing his classic comedy, The Party. What a moment! But I digress…)
Others will go hog-wild with reflections upon the life and work of Bergman, and I shall leave them to it at this time. No expert am I, nor would I claim to be fascinated with his work. Very impressed, though: Definitely.
Oddly, en route to Comic Con, while my much-more-movie-obsessed-friend P. was conducting his surveys of our fave This movie and our fave That movie, several directors were mentioned (my delight at Altman’s Popeye was totally ignored) — but, strangely (for he’s every bit as important as a Welles or Kubrick, and certainly more important than a Scorsese or Friedkin or whatever) Bergman only came up earlier, in the blazing sun on the way down, as we explained Last House on the Left (really hideous, succeeds at its goal) to J. — who had never seen it. (I have seen it — several years ago on VHS — and once was enough; I doubt I’ll ever view it again.) The thing is, that early Wes Craven exploitation movie is actually Bergman’s The Virgin Spring — updated to fit the parameters of wacko early 1970s America.
Having said that, I now proceed to list my Top Five Ingmar Bergman Films (and since I happen to love Swedish, I’m going to be 3/5 extremely pretentious and list them thusly):
1. Det sjunde inseglet
2. Såsom i en spegel
3. Jungfrukällan
4. Persona
5. Saraband
(Of course that’s an impoverished list, but some excellent highlights — plus I simply haven’t seen ‘em all: If anybody ever wants to make finger-sandwiches with me and sit down with Fanny och Alexander, only say!)
Goodnight and thank you, Mr. Bergman, for your many gifts to the 20th century’s greatest art form.
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07.30.07
Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 7:06 pm by Gregory
The thing is, I like Sean Young.
Not sure why, exactly: I don’t know her; her Hollywood hijinx have been peculiar to say the least; and below all, she is an actress.
Lest there be any remaining doubt, Gregory does not feel romantic about actresses. Particularly American ones. That bus left the station, and subsequently the route has been eliminated. Lesson learnt, bye-bye-bye.
I like Sean Young okay, though. I am happy that she’s around.
Here’s how weird life is: I noticed that she was doing that Comic Con speaking engagement in San Diego over the weekend, with Ridley Scott et al, and that was that; I was intrigued but didn’t go.
Then, about an hour ago, I was out walking, turned the corner, and boom: There’s Sean Young.
“Sean Young,” said I, to her (a bit startled, frankly).
“Hi,” said Sean Young to me (in that “this happens to me far too often” tone).
It’s a big world. Even L.A. is a big world (in its filthy-fishbowl kind of way). So I figured I’d better say something else, to — *ahem* — seize the moment.
“Good evening,” said I, to Sean (figuring — probably sensibly – that adding “…Mary” would be inappropriate).
“Okay, honey, you stick around here and I’ll be back at [time],” said Sean Young — but not to me.
(Why did I just turn the corner and almost literally run into Sean Young? thought I — and we’re talking split-seconds here. And then I thought: Why did Sean Young just tell that person to meet her at a time which has already passed?)
I figured I’d better say something else.
“How was Comic Con?” I half-shouted.
“Oh, it was great!” replied Sean (though it was quite clear that this was hardly the same response I’d have gotten had I said, “Hey! — How’s about I buy you an island or something?”)
And that was that.
Obviously, it would have boosted my ego a bit had Sean Young stopped in her tracks and declared into my face, “Man, I love you!” (See previous entry.)
But that was all right — I certainly wasn’t expecting it.
She looked…busy, let us say. And nice. Her hair is presently trimmed very short, and it’s dark. Her elegant features are as beautiful as ever. She wore dark clothing. Otherwise, I didn’t really pause to take aesthetic stock.
But isn’t it funny, how the dots connect?
The thing is, the most popular overall movie featuring Sean Young is something to which I have been longing to create and direct a sequel for several years. In fact, I have not one but two sequels drawn up.
I first viewed that movie in 1982. ‘Twas a Saturday afternoon at the mall. I had that incredibly tasty (and explosively healthful) mixture of caramel corn and cheese corn with me. I had no idea what to expect, but I knew that I was supposed to be in that auditorium on that Saturday afternoon, viewing that specific movie. I liked it a lot. I got it. First go-round. Mind, there was no consensus about that movie at that time. Most contemporary reviews turned out to be negative, but I hadn’t even noticed them yet (and didn’t care; who reads movie reviews anyway???). I was just there to partake of a cinematic, narrative, thematic experience. That I did. There were only a few other people sitting with me in that auditorium. I never found out what they thought. I emerged very impressed (and to this day prefer the V.O. version to the Director’s Cut — and incidentally, am wondering just how they intend to milk it for yet another cut).
I’m still impressed. Not at all obsessed (although there are several copies lying around). Impressed. It’s one of the greatest movies ever. (Yes, even with guns in it — alas!)
That’s why I want to make a sequel. And then another sequel.
Concepts were created with a dear friend — but then we agreed to disagree on some very vital points. Points of conflict. My treatments are here. They are nothing like the book sequels. They take the whole game to another level — and then…to yet another level.
Hey, Warner Bros. — want another massive franchise? Call me.
Bottom Line: I feel kind of dutiful about it all: I was there a quarter-century ago, the concepts have steeped ever since, and now I simply know I could do a great job with it. It’s not as if I’m thrilled to be tethered to somebody else’s copyrights; it’s just that I know I can launch that rocket.
So there’s that.
(Mind, I really prefer doing my own original work — but since absolutely nobody is tending this fire, I’m volunteering.)
Incidentally, I don’t just think about that movie when I run into Sean Young — which has happened a few times now. But it is her finest film, overall.
Anyway: Hi, Sean. Here’s wishing you and yours much happiness.
I mention this, above all, as an example of how magic works: You think of it, and it happens…or springs into being.
It’s just that simple.
Another example: Last night, just prior to being told by some stranger that she “loves” me (also learnt my lesson about the — let us say flexibility — of that word) I had been reflecting that there are a couple of books I seek. Walking back, I chanced to meander through an alleyway. There lay a box of books. Most of them were not books I really want. But there…
There within the box sat two copies of each of the two books I had been wanting.
In an alley, in the dark, next to a bin, about to be cast off into oblivion.
The Universe simply said, “Here ya go!”
Funny how magic works.
In closing, I know full well now that actresses are mad: But just as a knight must encounter the occasional dragon or manticore if he wishes to continue his quest — so must the storyteller encounter his own special brand of eyelash-fluttering beastie.
Songs du soir:
“Shattered” by The Rolling Stones
“Going to California” by Led Zeppelin
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Posted in Glögg Is Life. at 1:42 am by Gregory
A rich and lovely and hot (and restless!) past several days and nights; now it is Monday, and a new mini-chapter must take precedence over the recent adventures.
Which is not to say that anything good is eclipsed or forgotten; only that this week starts off (in modern parlance) hella busy! And then I board an aeroplane for parts known and yet not. Shall report.
Stardust review here. Good on ‘em.
The entry below shall continue to grow; I have some rather iffy pictures to add, plus the Details of That Day. Much like Two Days In The Life, it was an amazing time for me — but slightly more manageable in terms of describing it. I find really loving all the details to be quite delicious.
Since Monday won’t offer any time at all to build new thoughts here, I close with this notion: I Feel Love. Love, Love, Love. Scorpios go very, very deep — but when nuked, we quickly set about Healing and Starting Over. Starting Over is officially here. And the Love is of that Happy, Good, General Variety: Very appreciative.
Unrelated but symbolic, the tumble-tumble adventures of the past few days (I’m a person who likes to take breathers; and haven’t) reached a nice coda this evening as I walked home from a diner where I ate both chocolatey and salady things and allowed “Jersey Girl” to keep echoing over the ugly nu-punk until “Jimmy Jazz” started up and I left the place, whistling along in tune. I passed a late-nite bar, out of which were spilling several of what we used to call “yah-dudes” (Cali frat-types: sandals, shorts, t-shirts, baseball caps, sneers, extremely retarded-sounding voices) and lost-looking young women (most of whom were smoking). I like people, but never have a clue what to say to that crowd as I walk past, so I don’t. But tonight I said, “Likewise.”
My energy must have been up (despite no real sleep), because as I passed a close-cropped brunette in a black party dress with big tats on her upper arms (who appeared to be with her boyfriend, or at least her male human du soir), she stopped, looked straight at me, and said, “Man, I love you!”
What could I do? I simply and kindly said, “Likewise.”
And on strode I.
And on strode she.
And that was that.
Although it is my highest personal dream to be married and to share Life with one woman for the happy duration of our years, I also feel that the world could use a whole lot more of that kind of exchange.
Le chanson de lundi: “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer (and Giorgio Moroder)
L’autre chanson de lundi: “(Just Like) Starting Over” by John Lennon (with assists by Yoko Ono)
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