Throw a Rock: Michael Jackson, Sly Stallone, and L.A.

IMHO, whatever sells tickets qualifies as entertainment. Could be sports, film, TV, theater (back East, one says, thee-ah-tah), stand-up comedy, music, and, yes, even wrestling (down South, one says, wrasalin'). If we, the average citizenry, are parting ways with our hard-earned money (especially w/ today's economy) to buy decent tickets to catch a gig, see a show, or watch a play, it is the buying of tickets to see one's favorite act or star up-close-and in-the-flesh that denotes "entertainment."

In L.A., the industry here in SoCal is the entertainment industry. It's sexy. It's hip. If you want to be admired as "in the know," you must work in the entertainment industry (not that I am advocating this; far from it). Throw a rock and you pretty much hit someone who works "in the biz," (horrible phrase) whether behind the scenes, or whether one, as my childhood friend who had his own series on Fox says, "makes a living in front of the camera." We who live here are perhaps a little (no, a lot) jaded. When we have friends come to town, it is they who want to see and be seen with celebs. Even D-listers like reality tv "appearancers" are ogled and photographed (the au courant way to snap this photo is with camera extended high in the air, like one is about to pour beer on oneself, pointed back at yourself with arm around all manners of Shia Leboufs, Kobe Bryants, or even Barack Obamas). The only locals that really care about the celebs and their goings-on are the paparazzi who stalk them 24/7.

Just one quick recent example. When one of the owners of a boutique law firm I used to work for in Austin came to town for meetings with me to call on several studio lawyers, we were having breakfast and he said to me, "hey, my wife is a huge film buff, do you think we'll see any celebrities or movie stars while we're out today?" I looked up from my chicken breast with capers and egg whites and casually mentioned that William H. Macy was seated directly behind him (William H. was rocking a rather bushy, if not bouncin' and behavin', moustache). My Texas colleague vaguely recollected "Fargo" and thought his wife would indeed like that. When another of our colleagues met me in Marina Del Rey a few weeks later, we had breakfast next to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

If you live in certain LA neighborhoods, or frequent certain spots, one becomes accustomed to the celebrity sighting. We grow up with these guys or their kids; their kids play baseball or soccer on our kids' teams. We bump into Wimbledon champs in playing gear on quick break from their UCLA tennis tournament in grocery stores buying feminine hygiene products and/or prophylactics (talk about your 30-love!). None of what I've written is an exaggeration, but we could list 200 "celebrities" that we've met, know, have known, or bumped into just in the last several years.

Take this week, my boys are playing at a youth football camp at UCLA (there were also track, volleyball and swimming camps). I checked them in, and stayed around a bit to see that they were enjoying themselves, or worse, were not. Anyway, in the line at camper check-in was Diane Keaton ("Something's Gotta Give"), who was very relaxed and doing the exact same thing that all of us parents were doing, checking in some anxious kid. A few moments later, I was standing next to a few dads as we watched UCLA Coach Rick Neuheisel welcome our collective brood with some nice words. I realized that next to me was Keyshawn Johnson, arguably one of the greatest college wide receivers, and a spectacular professional receiver as well. (This was actually odd b/c Keyshawn is a USC Trojan alum, and here he was dropping off his kid -- I'm assuming his -- at a UCLA Bruin camp.)

When I was in college, my first-love handed me my cuckold beating heart in a break-up down in Malibu. It was a multi-year relationship that needed to end years earlier, but it stung nonetheless (enough so, that within two semesters, I was asked quite nicely to leave school until I could get my "shiyat" together -- it's a technical Cal State Admin term. Breakups are like that, they're the gifts that keep giving.). As we were walking and talking, heading back to her car, we passed several times two other broken-hearted beachcombers doing the exact same thing we were: Brigitte Nielsen and Sly Stallone. The next day, I heard on the radio whilst driving to CSUN that Sly filed for divorce that day.

So, back to today. I stayed around a bit longer at UCLA to just watch and enjoy my sons playing their favorite sport, and met a director/writer team who had just landed a new gig from Paramount Pictures and were doing research, meeting coaches and parents of youth footballers. The three of us talked about some common interests and friends in the business and had a nice chat. Like I said, throw a rock.

Which brings us to Michael Jackson. When I was a senior in high school and a freshman in college, he came to my house twice as a Jehovah's Witness. First time, I answered the door in my towel having just stepped out of the shower. He told me his name was "Joe" and that he wanted to tell me (or maybe he said "share with me") about the Lord and the troubling times we found ourselves living in. As I was dripping water all over the porch, I excused myself to throw some sweats on and returned in a flash (maybe that's a poor choice of words). Of course, I had to call my girlfriend (the breaker of innocent hearts) and tell her that Michael Jackson had just landed on my door and that she could expect him imminently (she lived a few doors down).

Upon Michael's next visit, he again said his name was Joe, but I didn't play along this time. I told him that maybe his middle name was "Joe" but his first name was for sure Michael. He brought along a 10 or 11 yr-old little friend, a good looking blond kid wearing the de reguire witnessing suit, with a sturdy leather valise that made him appear actually mature, perhaps Michael's spiritual mentor. The three of us chatted for about 20 minutes, Michael holding his black umbrella, blondie his valise, and I my Bible. I pointed out a few verses in my Bible that were different from his New World Translation and was about to say "thus sayeth!" when a dozen or so neighborhood kids meandered up the street in search of the begloved one. Michael Jackson, startled as a spooked horse, took off like a bat out of Hell, or a King of Pop running from a pack of prepubescent autograph seekers. His loafers were slipping and sliding all over the brick porch, like a cartoon character running in place, and then, ahhh, wonderful traction as his feet propelled him down the street clutching only his umbrella in one hand and steadying his hat on his head with the other. I later learned from one of the little kids that Michael ran clip-clopping down the steep street to his black Rolls Royce which he had parked at the bottom of the hill ready to spirit him away should any suburban ruffians ask a difficult theological question or request an autograph.

Which brings my very unimportant yet personal story to a close. While waiting for my boys to finish their practice today, I heard confirmed on the radio that TMZ was reporting Michael Jackson dead at the UCLA Medical Center not 3 minutes from where I was standing. Startlingly quick, there were 6 helicopters above the UCLA practice fields, raising such a racket that Coach Neuheisel had to ask a few hundred young future Bruin footballers to get into a rather tight scrum so he could be heard. My boys were not too shocked of the news re: Michael, but their mother (my ex) and I both felt a very real tug on our hearts over the news of Michael's death; he meant a great deal to our generation. His life was tragic in so many ways, and perhaps even lurid. I hope and pray that he found peace in his life.

As the boys and I made our way through the campus to have an after-football-practice ice cream, there were already a queue of 100 mourners and reporters on the campus. Sitting down at Diddy Riese, I asked my boys what they thought they could learn from Michael's death. My oldest who is 11 said in earnest "not to have plastic surgery." My youngest (9) said, "you should not try to change your color," and I said "you mean your ethnicity?" And he said "yeah, that." I suggested that perhaps we should all be ready to give an account of our lives, and that we should live good ones as much as possible. We all were silent on the street next to the restaurant with the hookah, as helicopters kept up their bloody racket above us, almost as oddly winged angels leading Michael to meet his maker. We ate our chocolate ice cream sandwiched by freshly baked peanut butter cookies.

Only in L.A.

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"If" by Rudyard Kipling (Father's Day)

When I was in high school, I was given a book of poetry. My favorite poem from this anthology would become Kipling's "If," which meant a great deal more to me after reading the biography of a missionary who was killed (and eaten) by the very people he was trying to help somewhere in Micronesia. This was also his favorite poem, and "If" helped him overcome obstacle after obstacle in his life, until one day he finally did become that true man, as the poem full of condition precedents predicts.

Today, on Father's Day 2009, I offer this to my sons, and wish them well on their journey into "if's" and "doubting's" and "becoming's." I tore this out of that thin little book 20+ years ago and have kept it with me since on every desk I've owned.

Happy Father's Day to all of you as well who share this Sisyphean yet wonderful burden and blessing.

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Summer Anthem

Here's my Summer Anthem:

Warm long days (like June 22nd long) that start early at the beach, with two tanned boys playing in the water, trekking back up to our encampment for a breather on their large toweled estate, chomping on cold fruit, while dad watches/reads from his chair and has a laugh.

Warm long days (that seem to last a week) that have two tired boys with sand on their feet crashed-out/napping in the warm car with windows down and wind blowing and classic rock playing and dad driving through the canyon with his sunglasses on thinking about twenty years past while holding hands with his youngest in the back.

Warm long days meeting up with brothers and cousins and mom and dad for a bbq. and jazz playing off in the distance and remembering our little brother who passed away way too young and then heading off to see a summer blockbuster in IMAX.

Warm long evenings with a cigar and some wine sitting in my brother's backyard too stuffed to eat anymore, but politely accepting one last heaping of dessert from my sister-in-law as the kids swim in a warm pool with the pool and yard lights throwing dancing shadows as dancing kids leap to watery landings from ledges tall and terrifying into their own unknown futures reflecting one day upon a warm evening's past.

Warm long evenings with tan calloused feet upon my desk as I scribble some remembrances into two leather journals for my sons (for their high school graduation gifts in 8-10 years) and reading some of my old journals from college when I wrote about their mom and their dad in happy times when the world was young and bodies were taut and lusty passions were summery things that made all memories tan and tenable.

What is YOUR summer anthem? Click 'Pithy Remarks' below and let us know...

Btw, the painting above was done en plein air by the artist John Kilduff. He is a talented artist who sells his paintings regularly online.

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The Brothers Bloom, A Film Review

Brothers Bloom

In screenwriting, it’s kicking in the teeth of the first 10 pages that is crucial in getting your script read and passed on to an actual decision-maker (rather than just some note-taker providing coverage). Writer/Director Rian Johnson clearly understands this maxim as was evident in his remarkable freshman effort Brick and his latest offering The Brothers Bloom. The hook is indeed set quickly in The Brothers Bloom's first 10 minutes through a voice-over in rhyme (by Ricky Jay) as we see the brothers’ troubled foster home beginnings, and how they'd move from town to town trying to figure out the angles. (If you'd like to see it, just click here!) Jay, you might recall, is the skilled veteran of the sleight-of-hand and a David Mamet regular featured in the classic grifter film, House of Games.

It’s this nascent development of their huckster skill-set that the brothers will need to pull off future long-cons. We discover how the brothers become streetwise survivalists, revealed in almost fairytale fashion that has the younger brother (confusingly called Bloom) believing/hoping, even if fleetingly, that their first elaborate “con” against the local kids might just actually prove to be real. The older brother (Stephen) is protector of Bloom secundus and he suffers for it, taking punches meant for his younger brother. Nonetheless, Stephen embraces this sibling call upon his life, viz., acting as buffer against the world and spinner of yarns for Bloom, who is always looking for the real pot o’ gold at the terminus of the long-con rainbow .

(NOTE: The Brothers Bloom had its distribution date pushed back to this past weekend, and has been in the can and making the rounds of the festival circuit since 2008. Usually this sort of start-date push back spells doom for a film, but Summit Entertainment (and Endgame Entertainment) felt that this summer would give the film a bit more room to find an audience; it goes wide next week.)

Fast-forward 20 years, and we find the brothers (Mark Ruffalo and Adrien Brody) once again setting up a mark (Rachel Weisz) who is a housebound billionairess and collector of hobbies. The brothers are fresh off several elaborate, Russian-novel-intricate confidence scams elegantly executed. But, Bloom wants out; he wants to finally live an unwritten life after many years of playing a role under the stage direction of writer Stephen. But, will Bloom ever really be free to choose?

And, here's the rub, dear reader: Director Johnson is clearly influenced by Wes Anderson (no crime there), and we see where Johnson has actually out-Andersoned Wes Anderson and lifted liberally from Rushmore, Royal Tenenbaums, Life Aquatic and even Darjeeling Limited. From the production and set-design (graphics and art design), to costumes and music choices (the soundtrack is quite good). From the color choices, to the character story arcs, we see precocious children wise beyond their juvenile delinquent years mapping out events weeks in advance. We see characters in love with and practicing the fiery art of pyrotechnics. There are prop guns and squibs. We even have a character wearing eye goggles, and voyage aboard a ship at sea, all

similar to what a viewer has seen in Wes Anderson films. As a huge Anderson fan, I was okay with this. What really bothered me, though, was that there was no real mystery in this film like a good crime-caper/grifter movie requires. We know where Brothers Bloom is going, except for perhaps one twist at the end. But this plot development arrives too late, like a Christmas present a week after the 25th.

Although the casting is strong, Rachel Weisz is especially good, it just wasn’t enough to make up for a weak 3rd act or lack of it. Ruffalo and Brody are two of the best actors of their generation (sorry for the over used bon mot). Interestingly, Adrien Brody is finding himself the actor-traveler of antiquity. In King Kong he travels by steamer, then by rail on an ancient train in Wes Anderson’s Darjeeling, and then again by steamer in Brothers Bloom. The chemistry amongst the three leads is solid, with a fourth especially fun turn by their (silent) partner-in-crime, a mimed performance by Japanese actress Rinko Kikuchi (Babel) who provides some much needed comic relief (and the best line of the film) as "BangBang."

I really wanted to like The Brothers Bloom, but it just didn't quite work for me. It's a fine bit of stylized cool with great costumes in worldly cities, if only Mr. Johnson could have focused a bit more on the last 10 pages of his script as he did the first. But, you tell me what you think if you see it!

Here is an interesting article on Slate Magazine that discusses Wes Anderson's influence on Post-WWII America.

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