SIGN LANGUAGE, PT. 11

 You can't take five steps in New York without getting bombarded by messages, ads, and other pieces of useless "information", Here are a few recent samples, accompanied by my pithy commentary.

Nothing beats walking in Central Park on a sunny spring day while looking at                   your phone and pretending there are orange curtains in front of you.

Hate to break it to you, bro, but the only thing anybody is going to trade                                                              any item of theirs for is money.

I appreciate the suggestion, but I'm more interested in figuring out the bus                                                               route if you don't mind.

      If you ever asked the question "What would the love child of Spongebob                           Squarepants and John Lennon look like?", here's your answer.                               

Bill Ritter and Marza are news anchors on WABC-TV.  And as you can see, we                                           New Yorkers take our news seriously.

Ever hear of someone having a "punchable face"? I'd like to take a goddamn                                                             steamroller to this guy's.

                                            Hey, it worked for Donald Trump!

                                                       *******************

MARCH FIRST ON JUNE FOURTEENTH

 My wife and I were two of the estimated 75,000 participants in the New York "No Kings" march on Saturday. It was more her idea than mine, seeing that it was raining with a ReelFeel in the 50s. Sure, protesting Trump's overreach was important, but did I have to catch a chill in the process? I'm pushing 70, after all. 

But there was no way I was going to let my wife go alone, especially when there were going to be plenty of silver foxes just itching to recreate the good old days of marches against all things Nixon, Reagan, Bush, and Bush II. (Gerald Ford didn't stick around long enough to incite any protests.) 

There were plenty of fellow Upper East Siders on the Q line heading to Bryant Park, the designated No Kings meeting place. Many were 60+, with at least one literally blue-haired little old lady. Sue and I seemed to be the only marchers not carrying signs. That was OK with me. As in background work, I dislike holding props for long periods of time. Besides, once we the march was over, we were headed for two art galleries with a stop at a cafe in between. How stupid would it look dragging a sign reading DUMP TRUMP while admiring the works of William de Kooning? (I didn't particularly admire them, but that's another story).

Fifth Avenue was closed to vehicular traffic from 42nd to 24th, along with most if not all the cross streets. The entire route was lined with cops in tactical gear, although they were there more as observers than anything else; they were using their visors not to protect their faces from flying objects (there were none) but the rain. Most of them had expressions of Pretty easy gig today or I'm standing in the rain for a parade? 

There were the usual chants that protesters have been using since the Tet Offensive, only updated to reflect current events. Hey ho hey ho, Donald Trump has got to go! and No justice, no peace! I wanted to start a round of Hey ho hey ho, JD Vance is such a schmo! and No kale, no peas!, but my wife wasn't having any of it. Any time I spotted a sign referencing another cause, like the local mayoral race or the mideast, I successfully suppressed the urge to shout, "Wrong protest, Skippy!"

What struck me was the number of people taking selfies, like they were at a concert, on vacation, or documenting a natural disaster. I wondered what they were going to do with their photos and videos. Show them to their friends? Watch them on their HDTVs while sipping white wine afterwards? I couldn't help but feel that for them, this was an event, rather than something that would actually cause "a regime change."

They were right. Until large numbers of Trump voters start protesting -- as Nixon voters did when their sons returned from Vietnam dead or damaged -- these marches will do nothing but make the participants feel good while preserving the illusion democracy is alive and well in America. And so we all returned home that night to watch the news, secure in the knowledge (subconscious or otherwise) that things will get worse long before they get better. 

And if they don't get better? Hey, see you at the next march! Hey ho hey ho, what good is this I'd like to know!

                                                                  ************

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 52

 From the frozen North to the streets of Chicago and New York come two features, one TV news documentary, and an industrial short starring a comedian in a rare dramatic role. You've never seen any of these and, unless you're someone like me, probably never will. Your loss, my friend.

THE VIKING (1931): When the prologue to a movie uses the phrase "the greatest catastrophe in the history of the motion picture industry", it isn't referring to Michael Bay. Not to say the script for The Viking isn't hackneyed -- two feuding members of a seal hunt in love with same girl wind up having to save each other's lives. The acting, too, is strictly amateur hour (and nine minutes). No one is credited as director, but producer Varick Frissell is one of the two guilty parties responsible, with B-director George Melford wisely keeping his name somewhere else. 

But Frissell must be applauded for the extraordinary footage shot aboard the titular ship during a real seal hunt in the freezing waters of Labrador. Nothing is faked here -- not the icefloes the sailors walk on (or jump across to avoid falling in the ocean), the icebergs towering over them like skyscrapers, the blizzards, or the seal hunt itself (don't worry, folks, no clubbing here, only rifles are used). When The Viking sticks to its real-life footage, the result is riveting enough to make you almost forget the mediocrity surrounding it.

Frissell would have done better just making a straight-ahead documentary along the lines of With Byrd at the South Pole from a year earlier instead of padding it out with a trite love triangle. Instead, Frissell hired unknowns (only lead Charles Strarrett would go onto semi-big things in B-Westerns). Non-actor Bob Bartlett, real-life commander of the ship taken by Matthew Perry to the North Pole in 1908, gives the most authentic performance as, what else, the captain of The Viking. Luckily for them and the rest of the cast, they were on dry land when, during reshoots, the ship blew up, killing 25 crewmembers, along with Frissell himself. Now you understand the "greatest catastrophe" hype.

Critics didn't cut The Viking any slack for the deaths, while the movie did poor box-office. Not even the introductory appearance of Sir Wilfred Grenfell ("the greatest living authority of the Labrador Country") raised a pulse of sympathy. Let that be a lesson to moviemakers: nobody cares about your damn tragedies.

BONUS POINTS: The Viking was, as far as I know, the only talkie with the sound captured via wire recorder.

BLOOD MONEY (1933): Shady bail bondsman Bill Bailey springs bank robber Drury Darling, kid brother of Bill's on-and-off lover Ruby. Their relationship is coming to an end, though, as Bill flips for society sweetie Elaine Talbert. When Drury skips town, Elaine joins him, going so far as to double-cross Bill by making it look like he robbed the bank. Further gumming up his life is the jealous Ruby putting a hit out on him in a way that gives "behind the 8-ball" a whole new meaning.

It isn't often I stumble across a pre-Code I've never heard of, but thank God and Darryl F. Zanuck for Blood Money, which gives us not only the fine roughhouse character actor George Bancroft (Thunderbolt), but also Judith Anderson playing a dame long before she was a real Dame. It's rather refreshing to see a couple who aren't young and gorgeous, with Anderson, age 36, looking compatible with 51-year-old Bancroft. Their characters have seen plenty of action in their time, reflected in Ruby's cynical eyes and Bill's cigarette & liquor-aged face. 

 But it's Frances Dee who puts the "pre" in pre-Code as Elaine Talbart, possibly the most carnally obsessed woman in a studio picture up to then. Any time the subject of sex, violence, or sexual violence is brought up, her mouth opens in a twisted smile and her eyes pop out as if inflated behind their sockets. "What I need is someone to give me a good thrashing," she warns Bill on their first date. "I'd follow him around like a dog on a leash!" And if you stick around to the end of the movie, you'll see that's her least shocking moment. Over and done in 65 minutes, Blood Money is Type A entertainment with enough startling dialogue to drive your wife out of the room as it did mine.

BONUS POINTS: 22-year-old platinum blonde Lucille Ball has one line of dialogue in her role as a hooker at the dog track. Just the kind of girl you want to bring home to no one.

DREAM STREET (19??): Long before the concept of hidden cameras catching
criminals became a regular part of television, WCBS-TV in New York presented the 30-minute news special Dream Street hosted by reporter Bill Ledder. At least I think that's his name; the show's scratchy soundtrack makes it difficult to make out. But that only adds to the old-school, pre-Dolby Atmos you-are-there feel of the show.

Filmed in co-operation with the NYPD, the first half of Dream Street follows three undercover cops staking out the Prospect Place area of Brooklyn waiting for the pusher man to sell his supply to willing customers. Conversation between the cops, allegedly captured by hidden microphones, appears to be dubbed in; not only is it slightly out of synch with their mouths, much of it sounds scripted, along the lines of "Look, here come the three addicts" as if the guys were wearing jerseys identifying their team. The second half, shot inside a police station, consists of a police sergeant interviewing "apprentice dealer" Big Sam and addicts Vernon and Willie the Whip one at a time. While interesting, it's something of a slog compared to the footage preceding it.

Just when Dream Street originally aired is difficult to figure out; it's supposed to have been in the early 1960s, but it looks a few years older. Men sell furniture on the street while keeping warm with urban campfires. Produce stands outside bodegas take up much of the sidewalk. Salesmen use horse drawn carts to peddle their wares. And by God the addicts wear nice fedoras, overcoats and neckties I would kill for. When did druggies become the slobs they are today?

BONUS POINTS: Is heroin still sold in capsule-form like it is here? Or am I just misunderstanding what the capsule really is?

THE ORDEAL OF THOMAS MOON (1956): From its stark black and white photography to its real-life ambient sound accompanying the on-location film shooting in the original Penn Station and Manhattan's west side, to the narrator who will sound familiar to TV-addicted baby boomers, The Ordeal of Harry Moon captures that brief time when cinema verite took hold in American entertainment, big pharm was still considered the answer to all our problems, and being overweight was the exception not the rule. 

The corpulent, perpetually perspiring Thomas Moon can barely walk up a flight of stairs at Penn Station, reach into his pants pocket for change, or fit inside a phonebooth. Nor can he open a newspaper or overhear a conversation without being reminded he's fat. Even his girlfriend chews him out -- telephonically, not literally -- sending him on a self-loathing stroll around Times Square. (How did he have the ability to walk 20 blocks from Penn Station?). 

You can't help but wonder what 24-year-old Dom DeLuise thought about playing a poor schlub surrounded by ads reading "ARE YOU SELF-CONCIOUS ABOUT YOUR WEIGHT?" or "FAT PEOPLE DIE FIRST." (His reflection in a storefront window is a near doppelganger of Oliver Hardy.)  When his character finally has a nervous breakdown in the middle of Broadway, DeLuise probably didn't need more than one take or even a rehearsal. 

The Ordeal of Thomas Moon lasts 14 minutes -- long enough for our heavy hero to decide he needs to do something about his condition. Or, as the understanding narrator reminds us, "He will face his problem the safe way, the only way, by seeing a doctor" -- who will likely put him on meds made by the film's sponsor, Smith, Kline & French Laboratories, the fine folks who manufactured and sold Benzedrine for weight loss. What, you thought proper diet and exercise would do the trick? 

BONUS POINTS: Dom DeLuise's breakdown happens directly across the street from the aptly-named Broadway Theater on the corner of 53rd Street, where, as we can see in the screenshot, Sammy Davis, Jr. was currently starring in Mr. Wonderful. 

                                                                  *************

HEDGEFUNDING OUR BETS

It takes five strong men with guns and clubs
to protect themselves from one unarmed
protestor.

 As we continue to live in a country ruled by a president whose spirit creature is the wendigo, a Republican party increasingly comfortable with the idea of Fourth Reich on its home turf, and a Los Angeles Police Department missing the good ol' days of Rodney King-style justice, let us return to the calmer climes of New York politics where the mayoral race has entered its latest lap.

I don't know these people six out of nine ways
from Sunday.

Nine Democrats -- two-thirds of whom fall in the category of Who the hell is that? --
took part, including the now obligatory hedge fund manager. His appearance answered the question "How do you tell a Republican skeezeball from his Democrat counterpart?" Answer: the latter brags about arriving to the debate on a bicycle. No joke.

Yabba-dabba-dope.

To give you an idea of just how serious some of these folks were, one of them, Jesscia Ramos, dropped out within hours of the debate and threw her utterly worthless support behind Andrew "I Am Not A Sex Pest" Cuomo. Ramos' move was that of a pro -- as in "quid pro quo" regarding a job in the next likely mayoral administration. Meanwhile, candidate Scott Stringer, a mainstay in New York politics since a subway ride cost 90 cents, continues to show his desperation for any political power higher than Comptroller, even as he's better suited to cosplaying Barney Rubble.

This left Cuomo and Zohran Mamdani to do the heavy-lifting in terms of one-on-one political attacks, cutting off each other, and all-around yelling exercises. I have a feeling, though, that Cuomo's ire against his main opponent is strictly personal, seeing that Mamdani is getting far more traction than expected -- so much so that even my laptop tells me when I've misspelled his name. 

It was no surprise, then, we received a piece of mail from the Cuomo campaign 48 hours later explaining the differences between him and his pesky rival. Right off the bat, the flyer wants us to "get to know the candidates" via their clothes. Cuomo: rough & tumble ordinary joe. Mamdani: a RISK (in a color font similar to his skin) wearing a shirt from The Muslim Men's Wearhouse. 

Gee, what do you suppose they're trying to get across? Especially since it's really easy to find photos of him in the dull pinstriped suit he's been sporting for months. Hey, he even showed up to the debate in one! Way to tell the voters what kind of person Mamdani really is! 

Forget about reading where the two guys stand on the issues, because you know already. (Although it's worth noting that the Cuomo list has a shiny, friendly white background while Mamdani's is darker and -- well, is it safe to say more threatening to the easily-threatened?). So it's best to go with the people who paid for the flyer, Fix The City, Inc. The little print reminds us that Fix The City, Inc. has no connection to any campaign (wink wink!), but it's good to take a closer look --like with a microscope -- at the names behind it. 

Yeah, deliver Gracie Mansion to Cuomo.

The first is DoorDash, the food delivery service that makes you think of struggling working-class folks, but is actually run by three Chinese-American billionaires. (I emphasize their nationality because they emphasize Mamdani's.) That trio of miscreants have helped to create headlines like DoorDash Accused of Purposely Misleading its Customers; Canada's Antitrust Watchdogs Sue DoorDash Over Prices, Discounts; and DoorDash, GrubHub, Uber Eats Settle With New York City Over Minium Wages, Fee Caps. Yup, it's the old story of billionaires who can't afford to pay minimum wage to their workers. Sad!

The other two names behind Fix The City, Inc. are John Fish and Matthew Hulsizer. Both are -- well, whaddaya know! -- billionaire hedge fund managers. Gee, I wonder in whose favor Fix The City, Inc. wants to have the city fixed for? C'mon, Andrew, it's time to replace that blue collar jacket with a blonde Trump wig.

Oh, and a helpful hint to Mamdani: Fix the City, Inc. lifted that photo of you from your own campaign website. It wouldn't hurt to replace it with one in a dull pinstriped suit. Gotta play the game, y'know. Look how far it's gotten Andrew Cuomo.

                                                                          *************

                                                     

DE-STINK QUALITIES

How people got their vital psych
information before the internet.

Clickbait articles offering "psychological analysis" regarding everyday tasks are always fun to read. Not because they offer genuine insight, but for their utter inanity. If the people who wrote these things were actually practicing doctors, they'd have had their licenses pulled before graduation.

None of these pieces really tell you anything you weren't already aware of. Here's How You Know Someone Doesn't Care About You. Here's Why You're Attracted to Certain People. How You Answer Your Emails Says Alot About You. Brother, if you haven't figured these things out on your own by now, you're beyond psychiatric evaluation and are ready to return to seventh grade.

You know these quacks are running out of ideas when they affirm that using a shopping list is a sign of dementia. That must have gotten plenty of hits, because now someone named Lachlan Brown promises IF YOU STILL WRITE SHOPPING LISTS INSTEAD OF USING YOUR PHONE, PSYCHOLOGY SAYS YOU HAVE THESE 7 DISTINCT QUALITIES. 

How desperate are people for reassurances of self-worth that they need a pat on the back for writing a shopping list? Here's what they discovered about themselves, with a second opinion from Dr. Fisheye.

1) You're naturally conscientious and love feeling on top of things. Yeah, OK, but I write shopping lists because we have to go through those pads of paper that charities keep sending us to guilt-trip us into making a contribution. (Hasn't worked yet. HAH!)

2) Your memory gets a bonus workout. If I wanted to give my memory a bonus workout, I'd try to remember what I was shopping for.

3) You protect your focus from digital distractions. So why do I have my Android in my pocket when shopping? To distract myself when I'm on the check-out line (and to see if anyone responded to my latest Reddit opinion).

4) You shop with intention -- and often spend less. Yeah, shop with intention to keep from going hungry. As for spending less -- when was the last time this guy went shopping? 

5) You crave tactile engagement (and your brain thanks you). I get more tactile engagement satisfaction from popping bubble wrap. And the only thing my brain thanks me for is getting caffeine into my system every morning. It sure isn't from reading useless crap like Lachlan Brown has to offer.

6) You use cognitive offloading to lower stress. I can't answer to that because I have no idea what the hell he's talking about.

7) You have a healthy streak of nostalgia (and that's good for you). Sorry, Lach, TCM and YouTube feed my nostalgia (and wife's neuralgia). 

You'd be laughing, too,
if you made a living
scamming the public.

If you want other crumbs of wisdom from this Lachlan Brown muttonhead, you can visit his site to purchase his self-published books (where the images feature an A.I.-generated paperweight engraved with the words BEST SELLER). The reviews read like they were all written by the same person who, I'm betting, has the initials L.B. The best part is that his site is called Hack Spirit, which would make a for a good article called ONE SIGN YOU'VE MADE A FREUDIAN SLIP.

                                      *********

RACE BAITING

Spring has arrived here in New York, and with it come its familiar signs -- foggy mornings, young women in pajamas walking their dogs, and political ads crowding the television airwaves like psychos on the subway. And lucky us -- we get to see them for two different states!

When you realize this required several takes to 
capture every angle, Fulop's feat isn't so
impressive.

Across the Hudson River, the Democratic primary candidates for New Jersey governor are big on images and scary words. Steve Fulop runs up a long flight of stairs in his gym clothes to prove that he's in shape to take on Donald Trump and Elon Musk. Navy vet and current House of Representatives member Mikie Sherrill stands by a helicopter ready to take aim at Donald Trump and Elon Musk. 

I'm pretty sure Trump did a similar ad
against Biden.

Sean Spiller, former mayor of Montclair, uses mock-ups of newspaper headlines
warning us about the damage done by Donald Trump and Elon Musk. In the silliest spot, A.I.-generated images show Josh Gottheimer boxing Donald Trump (presumably Musk is Trump's cornerman). All of these ads leave me wondering if J.D. Vance is embarrassed or relieved that the candidates don't consider him worth mentioning. 

It would appear, then, it doesn't matter which of these candidates wins the primary since they're all promising the same outcomes. Not so in New York, where the two leading candidates for Mayor are different enough to make things interesting. If politics is ever interesting.

Polling at 37%, Andrew Cuomo is the favorite to win on name recognition alone. His commercials deftly avoid any mention of past brushes with corruption and groping which cost him his previous job of Governor. (By the way, you know a politician is hungry for any kind of power when they try to get a job at a lower position than before.) 

A rare photo of Andrew Cuomo not getting handsy
with a young female.

Unlike the Jersey governor ads, Cuomo's are strictly of the handshake and speechifying varieties; no aircrafts or boxing matches here. Yet unable to change his questionable ways, the image to the right is from a commercial created by an allegedly-independent PAC in collusion with Cuomo's official campaign. This failed sleight of hand cost the former governor $622,000 in fines, not one cent of which will cost him a vote. Name recognition -- it's a good thing!

Speaking of name recognition, Zohran Mamdani has gotten traction by being the only semi-serious challenge to Cuomo, at least to younger voters. Over 30 years younger than the former governor, Mamdani proudly boasts of "progressive values" that has boosted him to number one in the hearts of 18-49 year-olds. Those votes have placed him in second place at (drumroll, please)... 18%. 

Mamdani hoping that Republican voters
confuse him with J.D. Vance.

That's 20 points behind King Cuomo. Only in New York is that considered a serious candidate by a news media desperate for any kind of excitement in an otherwise tedious race. Finally realizing the dreaded Babyboomers must be served, Mamdani has made a couple of key changes in his campaign style. First, he's traded in his hoodies for suits that make him look more Mayoral and less John Fetterman. 

Unfortunately, not all the older New Yorkers are warming up to a leftist Muslim endorsed by a former U.S. Representative who called the rapes and killing of Israelis on Oct. 7 "a lie". Nor do they take to headlines like "Mamdani passes on condemning the Holocaust". Stuff like this is concerning in a city second only to Tel Aviv with the largest Jewish population in the world. Another worry involves black voters, 50% of whom support Cuomo to the 8% Mamdani can boast of. 

"I'll take pandering to minorities for $100, Ken."

These problems seem to explain two commercials I've noticed this week running on Jeopardy! They're essentially identical except for the narrators. One of them features the voice of a 60ish Jewish woman. The second, a 50ish Black man. Neither hits the "accents" very hard, but just enough to let the target audiences know that Mamdani is safe to vote for. 

The first spot runs as Jeopardy! went into a commercial break, while the second is in the same break just before returning to the show. Apparently, the Mamdani campaign believes Jewish people are more likely to watch commercials, while Black viewers go the bathroom and return 30 seconds before the second half of the show. 

And if you wonder where Mayor Eric Adams is, well, as WABC-TV News reports, the Democrat-turned-Independent-turned-loser is polling at 8% "and falling". Look for his next ad to feature someone with a Turkish accent.

                                         

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 51

 The three features discussed here are admittedly more interesting as artifacts rather than straightforward entertainment, while the 30-minute short is either remarkably intellectual or a bunch of hooey. Or both.

THE VALIANT (1929): A young woman named Mary visits a convicted murderer in prison, believing that he is her long-lost brother James. The prisoner denies the accusation but says they served together in the Canadian army during World War I, and assures her James died a hero. Mary leaves just before the prisoner keeps his date with the hot squat, not realizing he really was you know who. And that's all, folks.

Well, not quite all. Everything about The Valiant is a little odd -- it feels like a short expanded to one hour. And for good reason, seeing that it's based on a one-act play. Only in opening it up for the movies, its makers added what amounts to a 30-minute prologue -- the killer's confession to the cops, and his elderly mom and younger sister back home in Ohio gradually being convinced of the killer's real identity. Further mucking up things, The Valiant's corny opening theme music played on a silent movie organ, flowery intertitles setting each scene, and even the actors' make-up make me think it was sitting on the shelf a year before its release. (A 1928 calendar at the police station is a giveaway.) 

While The Valiant  received 

positive reviews in its day, the only thing of interest now is that it marks the movie debut of Paul Muni, one of the most acclaimed stage actors of his time. As usual with Muni, you get an idea what the big deal about him was on Broadway, while still realizing the guy never figured out how to act for movies. (Unlike his later scenery-chewing antics, here he's damn near comatose.) Strictly for completists, The Valiant's second half at least gives an idea what a night at an honest-to-gosh Broadway show was like almost a century ago. 

BONUS POINTS: Early on, a stereotypical Irish policeman warns a priest, "You want to watch out for the cop on the next corner. He's not one of us!" Gee, I wonder what that could mean.

MADAM SATAN (1930): If you want to see a musical comedy-drama-romantic farce-aerial spectacle directed by Cecil B. DeMille, you're in luck! But be warned: C.B. doesn't have the touch for satiric, proto-screwball comedy.  As for the score, the forgettable songs range from not-so hot jazz to shrill operetta (the latter typical of early movie musicals). 

So what's all the hubbub about Madam Satan being a pre-code classic? It all comes down its legendary second half, consisting of a masquerade party aboard a zeppelin tethered to a tower in what appears to be New Jersey. Starting with the bizarre, art deco "Ballet Mechanique", the festivities devolve into women auctioned off to the highest bidder, guests getting sloshed on illegal liquor, and the leading man's wife and sidepiece vying to see which one will eventually go home with him. But this being a DeMille picture, Madam Satan wouldn't be complete without a humdinger of a climax, as the zeppelin breaks loose from its mooring during a violent thunderstorm and gradually falls apart thousands of feet in the air, sending its passengers into a Titanic-style panic. 

As for the first half, only the risque bedroom scene featuring stars Kay Johnson, Reginald Denny, Lillian Roth and Roland Young gets laughs, even as it lacks the lightning-fast pacing these things require. If the antics aboard the zeppelin sound interesting, go here, enlarge the screen and fast forward to 51:00. I can honestly say you've never seen anything like it.

BONUS POINTS: Reginald Denny, the philandering husband, played King Boris on two episodes of Batman a year before his death. 

FOLLOW THRU (1930): Okay, so maybe a semi-operetta climaxing with an airship disaster is too blase for your tastes. Then you're just the right person for Follow Thru -- the only musical about woman's golf in two-strip Technicolor you'll ever see (or avoid). 

Expectant father "Mac" Moore has bought a set of golf clubs for what he hopes will be his son-to-be. When learning his wife has given birth to a daughter, Mac decides the girl will break into the male-dominant sport. Jump cut a couple of decades. Lora Moore (Nancy Carroll) is on her way to becoming a pro golfer. But upon losing a tournament to the snooty Ruth Van Horn (Thelma Todd), Lora is forced to get lessons from instructor Jerry Downes (Charles "Buddy" Rogers). Before you can say "Fore", Lora finds herself competing with every woman at the country club for Jerry's affections. In other words, Follow Thru reneges on its original proto-feminist concept in favor of "a jane isn't complete without a man". Sounds par for the course, but at least Lora gets a mulligan to win Jerry's heart. 

Even for this gotta-see-every-early-talkie guy, Follow Thru was a chore, forcing me to focus on its historical "importance". First, I got to see the dishy Thelma Todd in color. Second, it features two supporting actors from its original stage cast, Zelma O'Neil (sort of a young Martha Raye, and that's no compliment) and Jack Haley (the Tin Man in that Oz movie), both of whom are still playing to the back row of a Broadway theater. BUT... Haley's goofy shtick of going into a seizure whenever he's in the company of a pretty woman had me laughing out loud each time, which means no one else will find it funny. Otherwise, Follow Thru never makes it to the majors due to its handicap of a bad script, likely driving contemporary audiences to the 19th hole.

BONUS POINTS: As with many stage-to-screen musicals of the time, Follow Thru features some new songs written for the movie. One of them, "Button Up Your Overcoat", became more popular than one of the original love songs bleated repeatedly throughout the movie.

TRUTH AND ILLUSION: AN INTRODUCTION TO METAPHYSICS (1964): I find that any movie with a title like that to be an invitation to a deep nap. TIL, as we'll refer to it, is an exception. First, it's only a half hour. Second, it appears to have been shot on 16mm Kodacolor film, which makes it resemble a home movie from six decades ago. Third, it was written, produced, filmed, narrated and directed by King Vidor (under the nom-de-film Nicholas Rodiv), acclaimed for legendary movies including The Big Parade, Hallelujah, Our Daily Bread, and The Crowd. On the other hand, he also directed The Fountainhead and Duel in the Sun, which shouldn't stop you from seeking out the others I mentioned.

By the time Vidor made TIL, five years had passed since his final feature Solomon and Sheba. Now 70 years old, perhaps the semi-retired moviemaker had become interested in things greater than movies (as if that even exists). Sounding very much like an aging college professor, Vidor clearly explains to even numbskulls like me the difference between truth and illusion, using the concepts of sunrise and sunrise, and even the very movie you're watching. 

By the end of TIL, Vidor will have you questioning everything you've ever read, listened to, or were taught. When he advises, "The world was formed by each one of us in his own mind", you know his former boss Leo B. Mayer wouldn't have known what the hell he was talking about. You tell the guy who championed the wholesome, easy-to-digest Andy Hardy pictures that a guitar doesn't make a sound unless somebody is around to hear it and see what he says. TIL is available on YouTube if you want to go down the metaphysical rabbit hole with the director of Stella Dallas as your guide.

BONUS POINTS: King Vidor was also the uncredited director of the black & white Kansas scenes in The Wizard of Oz, which I nominate as the average child's first metaphysical experience. 

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LUCKY 14

 

"Anybody here have four extra fingers to
make it 14?"

There's a couple of things about Pope Leo XIV we need to clear up. Like, doesn't the name look like that of an e-car? Drive the new Leo XIV! More miles per charge than any other battery-powered vehicle! The inevitable lion logo might draw the ire of the legal department at MGM, but it would be worth the publicity.

Second, what's all the noise about this being the first American Pope? Do people not remember Pope Francis hailing from Argentina, which is located in South America? I realize the word "America" conjures up non-Argentinian images as hot dogs, Slushees, and Fox News employees running the government. But "America" is not used exclusively by people north of the Mexican border. Hell, if Leo were from Montreal, wouldn't he be technically American? As in NorthAmerican continent?

On the other hand, some things are too far
gone even for the Almighty.

Let's call Leo XIV what he is: the first Chicagoan elected Pope. Now that conjures up much more interesting possibilities, like the Vatican chefs learning to make Chicago favorites like deep-dish pizzas, chicken vesuvio, and edible balloons. And won't it be nice to finally have a Pope who's a fan of baseball rather than soccer for a change? Lucky for the Cubs, if history is any judge they're going to need someone on their side who's got God's ear. 

As with the Ritz Brothers, the real star is in the
middle.

Too, let's put aside for a moment the good works Leo XIV was responsible for
during his Bob Provost days and ponder this instead: Have you ever heard of any Pope having one brother let alone two? 

Talk about sibling rivalry. It's bad enough when a brother makes good on the world stage while you're still stuck in your hometown. 

But imagine your younger brother becoming Pope! Forget about "I'm so proud of him, this doesn't come as any surprise to me". Just wait until they go through a few bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon at the next Thanksgiving dinner and one of them pulls the "God always liked you best!" stuff. Pope or no Pope, Leo's going to remember that Chicagoans have long memories. 

Oh, and for his own good, Leo XIV better ease up on all the pro-migrant chatter. American Evangelicals have Trump on their side. And we know how he got elected.

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TEXT STRESS

 In my two score and 13 years of driving, I have been the proud owner of zero cars. I grew up in a family where there were two them in the driveway and garage. During college in Boston and subsequent move to New York, the subway was and continues to be my mode of transport. Whenever driving has been preferable or necessary, I've rented cars. 

So imagine my embarrassment when I received this text six weeks ago:

Did I say "embarrassment"? I'm sorry, I meant to say "affrontment" (even if there isn't such a word). New York State can't suspend my vehicle registration because I have no vehicle registration to suspend. And by my memory -- admittedly, not laser-precise -- I hadn't rented a car since the middle of January. There's no way toll-and-tax hungry New York state would have waited over three months to threaten me with any punishment less than sitting through a press conference with Gov. Kathy Hochul. Zip, bang, boom the thing went in the "Blocked" file. 

That seemed to be the end of it. Until less than a week later:

Both the website I was to click on and the number from where it was sent were different. So were the other phone numbers the texts were being sent to. As if I wouldn't notice! Unlike many scam texts, the grammar on these two missives was almost perfect. I'm not sure if I would've pluralized "impact" but, unlike the message itself, it could definitely pass for correct. Another number blocked. 

Since I allowed the "pay or else" date to pass, I figured it would be my last notice. No no no, as I learned three days later:

Wowee! Looked like they really meant it this time. From the exclamation mark in the yellow triangle to the boldfaced FINAL ENFORCEMENT, the guy at the other end was insistent on me coughing up some dough. And to make it look even more like he knew what he was talking about, he threw in that little doohickey in front of the New York State Vehicle and Traffic Law and Part 127 of the Commissioner's Regulations. Not that I knew all that without Googling it. 

Yet why did they give me another chance after being a scofflaw regarding paying the toll? So they could send me give me another "final" warning yesterday, that's why:

Wait, did I say final warning? This is a FINAL ALERT, and the best yet far as grammar and legalese crap are concerned, even if the area code, as the others, is anywhere but New York state. Once again, the other recipients along with the "remit here" number are different. No need to read the whole thing -- it's just a rehash of the previous texts with 10 times the mumbo jumbo. 

I was seriously hoping for another warning this morning stating something like, OK, buster, this time we're not kidding!  Instead, just as I was finishing this piece, a different text arrived:

This time's the charm! Even if they did send the exact same text last December.

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