Japanese Happiness Soup

Robin Williams died recently. He committed suicide in his home, alone, he was 63 years old. At least that's the word on the news. Apparently he struggled for years and years with addiction, he also struggled with depression... probably for much longer. One could always picture him doing himself in. He was the type, after-all; a blazingly intelligent, manically comedic, tremendously talented performer who could conjure hilarity and heartbreak in the same role. There was a humanity in his performances that nobody could ever fake, not even himself. A humanity that only comes from within. In interviews with the likes of James Lipton and others, one could tell that Robin Williams struggled to fake a kind of Hollywood superficiality. He was a real person, even when he played a role.

Robin Williams ended his life as so many comedians do, either intentionally or not. It's been speculated that Laughter is mankind's original coping mechanism. So what does that say about comedy? What pain and insecurity can drive comedy, especially when it becomes a person's career? What happens when you can't laugh anymore? Where does the funnyman find solace? Where he find cover from him, or her, self? The late John Belushi probably fell victim to the same. He was a master of laughs but could not cope with himself, so he found shelter in excess that ultimately killed him. Ironically enough, Robin Williams (a close friend of Belushi) was one of the last people see him alive on that day in 1982. John Belushi's death supposedly convinced him to go cold turkey and fight-on, which he did until Monday.

Contrary to popular belief, suicide is not a short-term crisis. Normally the idea sparks many years in advance and as one grows older and rambles on through life it either diminishes or blossoms and grows up the walls of the heart and mind and becomes realer and realer. In short, people seldom commit suicide because of one bout of depression or one major letdown. It's a long build-up of a lot of little things. Little disappointments, little addictions, little things that people say, the sun growing a little dimmer everyday. Most likely, the pain and disillusion that made Robin Williams so brilliantly funny and so humane both on stage and in life is most certainly what he could no longer handle.

According to the latest statistics, Lithuania has the highest rate of suicide in world at 28.6 cases per 100,000 people. South Korea is second at 26.3 cases per 100,000 people. China and India beat-out Japan. Of course Japan is the best known country for suicide. Aokigahara, or "Suicide Forest", is a 30-odd kilometer expanse of forest at the base of Mount Fuji known as a hot spot for suicides. People go in and never come out. It's a problem that the Japanese seldom address, either because they consider suicide a legitimate way out or because it is simply too negative to think about. Japanese thinking strives towards happiness. Suicide isn't happy.

All anyone can do is talk about it. Unlike the advice of certain doctors named Phil, nobody can stop a suicide. There's no jumping into action, family intervention, or breakthrough moments. People will do as they will do, for better or for worse. All we can do is talk about it, and think about it, and talk about it some more. All we can do for those who struggle is to be there and to listen. All we can do is remember the laughs they left us with.

Jimmy Hoffa, the Mafia, and Morbid Curiosity...

It's been 39 years since Teamster Union Leader and folk anti-hero, Jimmy Hoffa, went missing. It was a balmy summer day in 1975 when Jimmy Hoffa told his wife that he was going to meet a friend at a Detroit area restaurant, got into his Pontiac Grand Ville, drove off and was never seen again. It's one of the most famous missing person cases in the history of the world.

Now, he was most definitely murdered by enemies... or possibly friends... among the nefarious and notorious cast of characters whom he had developed ties with over many, many years in the labor movement. There are a million theories as to who killed him, why he was killed, how he was killed, where the body is or isn't, and some speculate that he wasn't killed at all. Some theories make more sense than others, and many make no sense at all. A death scenario was portrayed in Danny DeVito's 1992 film, "Hoffa", in which he is killed in this extremely elaborate plot involving, ironically, a semi truck. Now while it was well shot and interesting to watch, Hoffa's death was most likely FAR less poetic.

Over the many decades, a number of Teamster officials have been murdered and disappeared, but none have gained the attention that Hoffa's death has. There was something about Jimmy Hoffa -- who had gone to federal prison and upon his release found that he had been ousted by his own following -- that fascinated people, and his death tantalizes, even to this day, that dark place in the psyche. This, despite the fact that if we knew how he died, we would probably be repulsed.

Part of Hoffa's legend, aside from the fact that he broke heads on the picket lines and faced-off against Prince Kennedy, is that he played with demons. He had ties to organized crime syndicates. His legend is part of the larger, greater myth. That myth of bootleggers and silk-suit clad urban bandits... the Mafia. There's a morbid place in our psyche that attracts us to the idea of the Mafia, despite that is really is -- if it ever really existed -- less "The Godfather" and more of a twisted urban feudalism. The idea of living beyond normal society and its rules is a turn-on for some. A social order driven by personal relationships and money, and defined by a swift and brutal sense of justice can lure our imaginations and entice our dark side. Hoffa was part of that legend and that world, and I think that ideal even enticed him... despite reality.

People, even flag-waving federalists, are inspired by the legends that form around certain kinds of folks. Just as some countries have their legends of poet warriors and ravishing damsels, America has cowboys and gangsters. It was an idea about Hoffa, just like an idea about Al Capone, or an idea about Billy the Kid that cemented him into the consciousness. The truth about people, especially dashing, daring, fearless people, is often far less romantic and far more heartbreaking than the man of faith can bare. And it is true that we see what we want to see and we hear what we want to hear.

So, the FBI looks and listens for tips as to where Hoffa's body is. They dig holes and file reports and come-up with nothing. Not many personalities could lure the FBI into chasing phantoms. Hoffa's legend endues, even after his body is long gone. Calcium oxide (quicklime) can destroy the flesh, but it can't destroy the idea and the imagination.

Rest In Peace, Rockford

For those of you who haven't heard, James Garner, the actor who played (among MANY roles) Jim Rockford on the TV series, "The Rockford Files" died on July 19th. I could talk about Garner's career widely, but "The Rockford Files" is his performance I know best, as well, I just feel like talking about "The Rockford Files".

For those of you who are too young to remember "The Rockford Files", let me just give a sketch. "The Rockford Files" was a weekly episodic crime/action series that ran on NBC from late 1974 until about January of 1980. The show focused on ex-con, Jim Rockford (James Garner), a private investigator in Los Angeles. Episodes usually involved Jim getting hired by some desperate client who couldn't pay him but because he was a nice guy, he always helped them out. Jim's clients usually needed his help because they were being chased by some drug dealers, Mafiosi, white collar criminals, government spooks, the police, jealous lovers, and sometimes all of the above. Each week, Jim used his street smarts and PI skills to find, elude, confuse, entrap, and ultimately overcome the rogues gallery that troubled his clients.

Tough crime and investigation-oriented shows were  pretty popular in the 1970's. For instance, you had Columbo, McMillan, McCloud, Cannon, Streets of San Fransico, Baretta, and so on. And while all of those were good, solid shows in their own rights, The Rockford Files broke the mold. What all of the previously mentioned shows had in common is that their protagonist(s) was/were always law enforcement. There were always the good guys with the badge, following the television dogma established by shows like The Untouchables and later, Dragnet and Adam 12. Jim Rockford was no law enforcer. He was a wrongfully convicted ex con who often butted heads with the police and the FBI when chasing goons around LA's seedy underbelly. In fact, lawmen were often portrayed as misinformed, incompetent, and even antagonistic (bad) on The Rockford Files.

The Rockford Files wasn't a procedural. It was "Noir". Think of those movies from the 30's and 40's but in double-knit polyester. Every week, Jim was in the middle. He took-on cases not knowing if he would get paid, laid, arrested, or killed. And as much as Jim complained about the money, he did what was right. And I think that was James Garner's real gift to the character. Rockford was a sly, cynical smart-ass, but he was above all human and decent. And really, that's the greatest challenge ANY actor faces, especially in television. How to make this fiction seem real? Garner somehow did it. Week-after-week, that hackneyed gumshoe didn't seem so hackneyed. He was often neurotic, frustrated, cheap, and regularly got the shit-kicked-out of him. Rockford wasn't Sam Spade... he was the guy next door.

Willa Cather, Teenagers, and Jungle Juice

Writer Willa Cather is quoted as once saying, "You know everything that you need to write a book when you are fifteen-years-old."

To which, I respond so eloquently, "Bullshit and Shenanigans!!" One thing about fifteen-year-old's, including the smart ones, is that they all have a SHIT LOAD to learn about life... especially their own. They have no introspection, and rightfully so. Early adolescence shouldn't be complicated enough to warrant introspection. Of course, Willa Cather wrote about blue-eyed stoics carving-out lives on the wide-open prairie. She left the ugly, interesting stuff to cynics and misanthropes like yours truly.

The teenagers today freak me-out. Perhaps because I'm of that age now when you begin to see distance between now and then. I was never a normal teenager, and in fact, I've really never felt comfortable around teenagers, even when I was one. Probably because I was one of those unfortunate teenager's cursed with introspection. Have you met a teenager who wants to buy a Town Car and retire? All those care-free, blissfully ignorant teenagers got to enjoy an adolescence of dances and parties, dates and awkward crushes, Jagermeister and silly clothes. As for moi, it was a beige suit, Merlot, and a whole lot of contemplation. Some of us try to be something that we just aren't, to fill a role, to become something, to wear a pair of someone else's shoes.

It really wasn't until my junior year of high school that I started being honest with myself. Of course, it was no easy task. Let me just gives kudos to the movies and a lot of rock'n'roll. And honestly, I know a lot of people twice my age who have never had a moment of introspection whatsoever.

I once took an opportunity to try "Jungle Juice", a cocktail of Cool Aid and a nearly lethal libation called "Everclear". I was surprised by its tolerable taste, especially when considering that Everclear is 190-proof. However, I was not surprised enough to explicitly offer Tom G's seal of approval. I'll stick to my Porters and Ales, thank you. Despite Jungle Juice's failure to wow me, I suppose its a quick and easy way to get banged-up if you're a teenager burnt-out by introspection, Willa Cather, and life in your sleazy little town.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the hits of 80's await me.

Old Stuff

As the years pile on, so do memories of things one USED to own. Old things, once irreplaceable accouterments of the daily minutia, now lost to the blurry gloom of time. An old pair of shoes that took us miles, an old video cassette (remember them; the thick, heavy black things that nobody EVER rewound) that entertained us, an old videogame that occupied so many hours. So many things bought and used. So many dollars spent on things we can barely remember having.

The boxes those things could fill. Long hours spent looking for them. Rummaging through old closets and niches, exploring darkened corners and remembering moments in time that you thought you would forget. But you never do. You know the one's, those scenes of the past that replay. You can feel the emotion, picture all the little details, and hear all the voices as though it happened only yesterday... even after twelve or fifteen years. Some things you would like to forget, but never will. Some moments that you wish you could reach-back to change. But you can't.

An odd thing, that. The abstraction of time, so loose and so unreal, becomes something like stone once the moment drifts by. There! See it. Now that moment is gone, and you cannot unread what you have just read, nor retract that mumbled "what-the-fuck?" you just uttered in response to this rambling, rolling diatribe.

Screw the memories, WHAT ABOUT THE STUFF!! All that stuff. All the shit that was bought. All those chochkies that they no longer make. Some of it has to have at least SOME collector value. As time rolls-on there's less and less of it still around, what's left out there must get more valuable. What's an old videotape worth? Nobody uses them, but surely someone must want them.

Christ, if only you had saved half-of-it... if only.

Tom G Reviews: American Hustle

"American Hustle"... what can I say about "American Hustle". Everybody just loves it. Rave reviews, a smash at the box office, praise and honors from all over. Director David O. Russell's love letter to the 1970's has certainly made a lot of people very happy and lot of hipsters very horny. Well, let's cut the bullshit and get to it, yes.

"American Hustle" weaves a tale of Long Island dry cleaner and con artist, Irving Rosenfeld (played by Christian Bale) and his mistress Sydney Prosser (played by Amy Adams) who, with little choice, become instrumental in an FBI investigation headed by nefarious agent, Richie DiMaso (Bradley Cooper). All the while they must cope with conflicted emotions for those they are helping to arrest, Rosenfeld's passive aggressive wife (played without breaks by Jennifer Lawrence), and DiMaso's increasing obsessiveness as he leads them down a rabbit hole of cons and entrapment in which they must hustle for their very survival.

"American Hustle" is an exaggerated telling of the "ABSCAM" investigation of 1978 to 1981-or-so in which the FBI used a con artist to bribe and in many cases entrap various congressmen, mayors, and senators - mostly infamously the mayor of Camden, New Jersey played in the film by a pompadour wearing Jeremy Renner. One thing the film does very well in this sense is to capture the malevolent nature of the case in which the FBI used any method to tempt those in its cross-sight. DiMaso is in charge of the case, it's his. He wants to make BIG cases against BIG figures which will attract BIG headlines. He wants to be Elliot Ness in bell bottoms. And much to Rosenfeld's dismay, it brings them dangerously close to some very sinister people. Agent DiMaso, like Captain Ahab, turns-out to be a user of those who need him and an abuser of those who disagree with him.

There are moments in this film that I love. There are moments of humorous arguments and lines that left me reeling and choking on my smoker's cough. There are moments of characterization... streams of consciousness - mainly by Rosenfeld - in which this cast of polyester-clad miscreants are given depth and dimension and we are allowed the illusion of reality. There moments between characters that disgust, warm, amuse, and break your heart. And then there are moments that you regret seeing so much that you could just punch the director, the editor, and the cinematographer for showing you.  "American Hustle" has many moments.

Well shot and well designed, the mise-en-scene of American Hustle is an impressive and tasteless mix of 1970's nostalgia kitsch and an impressive visual realization. "American Hustle" has a schizophrenia about it. On one hand, the cheap grotesqueness of the characters both in dress and behavior lend credibility to the film. It's a verisimilitude that can be scene in similar costume pieces like "Boogie Nights" (1997) or "Lymelife" (2008). But where there is one hand, there is always another.

"American Hustle" brutally kills its initial verisimilitude by doing something that is far too common in films today. It becomes too self aware. There are many, many slow motion shots set to your typical 1970's soundtrack. Many instances of actors doing 1970's stuff but in a very aware way as one might find at a 70's themed party. And yes, the film is supposed to be funny. But it also needs to be taken seriously enough to make us care. All of that dimension I talked about before ends-up getting lost when Jennifer Lawrence is jamming-out like a college girl wearing a wig or when we are subjected to a disco scene that feels like a commercial for the Palms in Las Vegas. Like any art or craft, storytelling is made in its subtlety. Too little, you fail to impact. Too much, you overwhelm.

The characters in this film are generally unlikable. Which I can get on board with. The only character that I imagine anybody sympathizing with is Irving, and not just because I do. Christian Bale really went all-out for this role, including disfiguring his own hair and gaining weight. Almost like a living homage to Robert DeNiro's method acting (look-out for DeNiro in a cameo), Bale transforms himself into a balding, insecure, rotund New York Jew caught between a disingenuous mistress, a bad marriage to a complete bitch, and an FBI Agent's machinations that will force him to betray a new found friend. Of all the character's who inhabit with film, Irving has the most dimension, the most complexity, the most understandable motivations, the greatest conflict... and yet not nearly enough story line.

Instead of focusing on its strongest point, Irving and his conflict, American Hustle is steered into a Bermuda Triangle of plot and trying to be 70's. It becomes bogged-down in jumping from one plot point to another, one case to another, one moment of Amy Adam's cleavage to another. Much like this blog. It really is unfortunate because there are few things in film sadder than when a filmmaker squanders his most valuable asset. More focus on Irving really could have given this film more substance.

"American Hustle" is about becoming something. Irving with his Coup DeVille and his comb over is trying to become something. Sydney with her sensuality and her faux British accent is trying to become something. DiMaso with his Caligula perm and his Lucchesi boots is trying to become something. While they play their chosen roles and make-up lines as they go along, it become obvious to we the audience as well as themselves that it is all a game of pretend.

In so many ways, that is "American Hustle". It is a film that leads us to believe it to be something that we expect it to be. Then it violates those expectations by revealing itself to be something else. Ultimately, though, it turns-out to be something confusing that complicates our feelings about it. Like a lover who steals your money and runs-off with your best friend, I entered warily into "American Hustle". Ultimately there are things about the film that I love, and yet the film sabotages itself by neglecting those things, and often even working against them. I want so much to love this film and yet I cannot. "American Hustle" broke my heart and cleaned-out my savings after a short and stormy romance.

Tom G Reads: American Pastoral

All right, here we go...

Philip Roth's 1997 tome, "American Pastoral", was an interesting trip for sure. Leading into the dark under croft of the American soul, Roth weaves a tale of humanity in all its beauty and horror as his protagonist must explore the heart wrenching depths of fatherhood, tragedy, and reflection.

A little background. I first became acquainted with this novel while delving perversely into the urban decay of Newark, New Jersey. I ran across mention of American Pastoral as it references Newark not only as a setting but as well a backdrop and embodiment of its themes of American optimism, pride, sin, self-destruction and eternal purgatory. A paradise lost. I was intrigued, to say the least, I knew I had to get hold of this book, but was simply too cheap to buy it. Enter the college library, and the opportunity to read it for free. An opportunity I did not hesitate to embrace. I found the book sitting alone of a shelf, sadly waiting to be rediscovered after a long neglect.

The story is told by "Nathan Zuckerman" a regular narrator in many of Philip Roth's works, and probably a literary persona for the writer himself. Zuckerman tells the story of Seymour "Swede" Levov, that rarity of blond, Jewish athlete whose story haunts Zuckerman after a high school reunion in his Newark neighborhood. In a series of long, often disorienting flashbacks, the narrator (Zuckerman) describes Swede Levov's arc in three parts. Part One, Swede's charmed life as a high school star athlete, war hero, inheritor of his family's successful glove factory, husband of a New Jersey beauty queen, and father of his daughter, Merry. In Part Two we learn of Merry's deep-seeded troubles, her turn to the radicalism of the late 1960's and the the tragic results. Swede, heartbroken and desperate to find his murderous daughter delves into a dark and hellish world of secret meeting, sexual temptation and the morose abyss of accepting what his daughter has done. In Part Three, Swede finally finds his terrifyingly disturbed daughter, alone in the dark, Dante-esque landscape of post-industrial Newark. His marriage crumbled, and unable to save his daughter, Swede is left to accept the loss of the past and to face the uncertain future.

American Pastoral is told in an interesting way. It is told through the narration of a character who was not there. Who barely knows Swede. It is almost pieced together from the knowledge and imagination of a less-than-reliable source. At one point it transitions to Swede's point-of-view, but even here I felt as if I was still listening to Zuckerman attempt to reconstruct the events and thoughts that surround Swede. Why is Zuckerman so fascinated by this? What does Swede Levov and his story, if it's even true, represent to Zuckerman. Is it an allegory for Newark's fall-from-grace? Is it an allegory for America's fall-from-grace. Could this life of achievement and hope, brought-down by desperation and self-destruction be the story of America in the 20th century? Or does that all even matter to Zuckerman? Perhaps Zuckerman is Virgil, showing us the netherworld. A guide and voice to help us find meaning in all of it.

Philip Roth's writing was that of an old pro. He knows how to tell a story. The language of American Pastoral paints a vivid and even surreal set of pictures in our mind. Reading this, I could see the people, the place, the time. I could feel the story's emotion, I could feel the heart of its characters. Its pathos, palpable and real.

There was one glaring problem I found with the novel. There was a lot of unnecessary writing here. A lot of what seems like padding and over-extensions just to reach eighty-thousand words. For instance, paragraph-after-paragraph, and sometimes across multiple pages describing the manufacturing of ladies gloves. At times is was so tedious that I had not choice but to sacrifice my weak and wounded and march-on. It's not a good thing when the read has to skim and skip just to stay on board.

Overall, American Pastoral was rewarding read, even if padded. At its core is a story that one can grasp and feel. It is a meal with many parts and many flavors. There is a lot here. The rise and decline of a family mirrors that of its home city and of the United States as a whole. The parable of a hero, loved and admired, who is brought to his knees and broken by what he has made and yet unable to understand. A force of destruction greater than any: his own child. Swede Levov, like Newark and America, is torn-apart by his own offspring.