HAPPY SAME YEAR

I think we can all agree that the concept of New Year's resolutions is taurus stercore. It's much easier to keep doing what you're doing than actually change. 

In fact, there was a piece online recently about how humans are hardwired not to keep resolutions. I would have read it, but I couldn't be bothered. Just the headline was enough to reassure me that I have a good excuse for being who I am. I just can't help it!

So rather than disappoint family and friends with promises I'll never keep, I'm going to make a list of things about me that will probably never change in 2015 (and beyond). 

I resolve to continue:

Flipping off politicians I don't like.

Embarassing my daughter in front of her friends.

Envying the rich while still despising them.

Finishing my own dinner before eating off the plates of those around me.

Breaking into a sweat every time I have to drive in Manhattan.

Cursing loudly when I can't find a parking space after ten minutes.

Being shocked at what I see in the mirror.

Polishing my schadenfreude to a shiny glow.

Being inexplicably proud of getting a flu shot.

Forgetting to ask my doctor if I should get a shingles vaccination like the commercials always tell me to do.

Laying off the bacon, cheese and red meats, only to return to eating them again after my cholesterol is normal.

Childishly mocking funny accents on Al Jazeera.

Expanding the number of my revenge fantasies.

Making John Boehner, Harry Reid and Jeff Zucker my favorite whipping boys.

Retreating to the world of B-movies as often as possible.

Figuring out how I got to be this way.

Looking forward to the new year where everything will finally turn around for me, only to be bitterly disappointed 12 months later.

Trying to be a better person, anyway, for the sake of my wife and daughter.

And when that doesn't work, trying again.

And again. 

And again.

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UNNOTABLE DEATHS OF 2014

Lenny Hannigan, known as the "warm wit of Williamsburg," died at the age of 28. A lifelong student of jokes, Hannigan told Charlie Rose that he had an epiphany upon realizing that "all humor is based on someone being hurt or insulted. The joke is literally always on somebody else, even if it's the person telling the joke. Self- depreciation is just another word for low self-esteem." Vowing to become the first "cruelty-free, non-racial, post-religious comedian," Hannigan pioneered the art of jokes without punchlines. A typical Hannigan "remark," as he referred to his jokes, was "A Crayola crayon walks into a bar. The bartender says, 'Why so blue?' The crayon replies, 'Because I'm violet blue.'" Hannigan died after being struck on the head by a flying beer bottle one too many times at his gigs. 

Victoria Coulomb, 81, was unknown by name to most people, yet was responsible for one of the most iconic cultural touchstones of our time. While working in the P.R. department for Delta Airlines, Ms. Coulomb was asked to write and record a phone message for customers waiting for a live representative. In less than two minutes, she came up with the phrase, "We are expecting higher than normal call volume. Your call will be answered in the order in which it was received. Your call is very important to us; please hold." Ms. Coulomb suffered a fatal stroke while kept on hold by the emergency room.

The legendary Robert "Woody" Woodson, 77, was one of the most in-demand consultants of the business world.  Believing that "the best employees have the least personality," he decided that "conversational language" was anathema in the office space. Over the course of several years, Woodson created words and phrases that would soon become standard language on Madison Avenue and beyond. Starting with the suggestion to "think outside the box," he soon went on to coin "synergy," "crunch time," "bring to the table," "hitting our numbers," "outsource" and "at the end of the day," among hundreds of others. Woodson, however, was proudest of "downsizing," believing that it sounded like the managers were helping their companies rather than destroying their employees' lives. According to witnesses, Woodson, having a sudden heart attack, was trying to call for help but couldn't think of the right word.

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PRESENTS UNDER THE TREE

We've all been so busy buying gifts for friends and loved ones that it's easy to forget there are people who mean nothing to us that could use a little Christmas cheer, too. So in the spirit of the season -- and, more importantly, taking the easy way out of writing a real piece by listing things instead -- here are some gift suggestions for people who have way too much already.

FOR SONY MANAGEMENT: Writing paper, along with a lifetime supply of disappearing ink.

FOR SETH ROGEN & JAMES FRANCO: A script worthy of starting a nuclear attack on the USA.

 
FOR THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF ROLLING STONE: A copy of Journalism for Dummies.

FOR BILL COSBY: A plausible denial.

FOR FOX NEWS: A fashion and make-up stylist who wasn't influenced by Penthouse magazine.

FOR CNN: A solid gold mallet to beat yet another dramatic story into the ground.

FOR MSNBC: The wisdom to realize that not everybody who can sit up and chew solid food is qualified for their own talk show.

FOR HILLARY CLINTON: A reason to vote for you that doesn't include the words "Hillary," "Clinton" or "woman."

FOR THE REPUBLICAN PARTY: A presidential debate that doesn't look like the new season of American Horror Story.

FOR BARACK OBAMA: Your own smoking room in the White House, away from the ol' ball & chain. Or at least a jaunty cigarette holder. (It worked for FDR!)

FOR ISIS: Bomb vests with faulty timers that go off way too early. Bonus gift: rubber sabres.

FOR MY WIFE: The strength to remain married to me for another year. 

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

MEMO FROM AMY PASCAL

TO: All Sony employees
FROM: Amy Pascal, Chairman, Sony Pictures

Dear Loyal Sony Team Member:

First, let me say that by withdrawing The Interview and stuffing it in the back of the closet like a half-empty bottle of Mr. Clean, the terrorists have NOT won. Far from it. Have you seen the early reviews on Rotten Tomatoes? We received a 47% rating. Granted, it's not as bad as our Annie remake, but still. This is a win for us, and I wanted to thank everyone of you for pitching in.

Going forward, we're going to have some new rules regarding email communication. I believe that by following these simple steps, we will save ourselves a lot of embarrassment in the future.

1) Do not make any comments more racist than they have to be. One Obama-black movie joke in a single email exchange is enough . Any more than that is beating a dead horse. (And just to make clear, that does mean I endorse or condone the mistreatment of animals.)

2) Calling Angelina Jolie "seriously out of her mind" is archaic and insulting. The correct phrase is "delightfully eccentric."


3) When urging the studio not to cast certain African American actors any lead roles, as one of our executives did with Denzel Washington, make sure you add "I AM NOT RACIST, EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD IS" in caps and 24-point font. Remember, with few exceptions, Hollywood doesn't know the meaning of racism.

As for those whose personal and medical records were made public, I am very sorry. I had no idea that by dumping our IT department and outsourcing security to some faceless phone jockeys in India, we were somehow leaving ourselves wide open to mischief. To rectify this, I have some important news.

Starting January 2, 2015, all Sony employees will be given new names for interoffice and medical communication. These names will be taken from the characters featured in classic Columbia Pictures movies: Longfellow Deeds, Jefferson Smith, Drs. Howard, Fine & Howard, etc. These name changes will apply to your family members as well, re: medical records. To further disguise your identity, your sex will play no part in the name you receive. Sony is an equal opportunity employer (except for salary).

Each one of you will be called into Human Resources at a specific time and date. There, you will be given your new identities, which you must memorize on the spot. You will not be allowed to copy down the names. This is for your own security. 

Be assured that Sony Pictures will now concentrate on making our movies as free from real substance as possible. As we've learned, controversial subject matters do our business no good whatsoever. Therefore, I'm excited to announce a contest open to all Sony employees. We're looking for new comic book-type heroes to create tent-pole projects around -- movies made for the 12 year-old boy in all of us. So put on your thinking caps -- or should I say non-thinking caps, LOL! -- and create the next big, soulless thing! And if it's China-friendly, so much the better (hint, hint!).

Again, let me apologize for everything that's happened in the last few weeks.  I know that by pulling together and continuing to cower before anyone who threatens us -- whether it be a bloodthirsty despot or anonymous hacker -- there is every reason to believe that we will keep our jobs.

Amy Pascal

PS: Pre-production on The Interview II: ISIS Here We Come! has been canceled indefinitely.

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BREAKING NEWS: BUDGET BILL EDITION

Facing attacks from their bases, John Boehner and Harry Reid made a rare joint appearance to explain their support for a provision that would dramatically increase the amount of money a single rich donor could give to national party committees each year — from $32,400 to as much as $324,000.

"What the people don't understand," Boehner said, "is that, by increasing the donation limit, we're actually helping hard-working Americans from having to dig deeper into their pockets to support their favorite candidates. The bigger the donation from the wealthy, the less we need from everybody else. That means they have more money to spend on medical bills, new shoes for Junior, and so forth. Remember, we want money from Walmart, not their cashiers."

"Not only that," said Reid enthusiastically, "but by increasing the donor limit, the more we are, in fact, soaking the rich as the left is always begging us to do. For instance, have you read any of those hacked emails from Sony? One of them details how Steven Spielberg and Jeffrey Katzenberg demanded $32,000 from studio executives for a Hillary Clinton fundraiser. Once the president signs this bill, Steven and Jeff will be able to shake them down for ten times the amount! If that's not soaking the rich, goddammit, I don't know what is."

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AN OPEN LETTER TO MAYOR BILL DE BLASIO

Dear Mayor de Blasio:

I see that you're already pulling the Progressives' first move, i.e., going back on your promise to be a man of the people. That new "privacy fence" -- the one you neglected to get a permit for -- inside the Gracie Mansion grounds guarantees the people who voted for you will never catch an unauthorized glimpse of you. Kind of like how your fellow "Progressive" President Obama keeps a tighter leash on the press than President Lincoln during the Civil War.

Perhaps being fenced in from the public has prevented you from seeing the streets of your neighborhood. For 20 straight years, from Rudy Giuliani to Mike Bloomberg, the sidewalks were as close to spotless as they could possibly be. You could almost eat off them, as some people were known to during the Koch and Dinkins years. 

But since your election, it seems like you -- or, rather, we -- can't walk 15 feet without seeing trash on the curb and, worse, dogshit in the middle of the sidewalk. This kind of thing was endemic during the bad old days of New York (1965-1990), and was just kind of accepted, like junkies on every corner and muggings in the middle of the day.

The previous two mayors proved that New York could be a clean, safe city if the people who ran the show wanted it to be. Now, I'm a registered Independent, because I truly believe that Democrat and Republican politicians are beholden to themselves first, the party second, and the people dead last -- like 45th in a choice of three. But what is it about Democratic mayors that makes them think filthy streets are just part and parcel of New York life? 

Now, I realize you have other things on your plate right now. The cops are under fire for killing unarmed black males. The resulting protests seem to be clogging the streets by the tens of thousands every other evening. However, you can do two things at once, can't you? I mean, you're a big city mayor with, I would guess, dreams of being president one day. Please, learn the art of multitasking. 

Count your blessings. If these trigger-happy cops worked under Giuliani or Bloomberg, they would have been considered the source of the problem. You, on the other hand, are a "Progressive," and therefore are perceived to have clean hands. Unlike my neighborhood sidewalks, shit doesn't stick to you. Yet.

Your neighbor,
Ol' Fish-Eye

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "UPTOWN NEW YORK" (1932)

Uptown New York tells the well-worn of the story of a woman, Patricia Smith, in love with two men, Dr. Max Silver and gumball-machine entrepreneur Eddie Doyle. As its poster's tagline reads, A human story of a girl who was... just human! We all know what that means, don't we? Just to make it clearer, Viña Delmar, who wrote Uptown New York's scenario, was also the author of the novels Bad Girl, Loose Ladies and Kept Woman. No wonder she's the rare writer whose name was on the promotional materials.

With that pedigree, I was hoping for some drug use and a bastard child thrown into Uptown New York -- especially when Patricia and Max spend the night together. However, the only genuine pre-code moments could be counted on one hand:

1) Max's overtly-Jewish family. His proud father invites friends over to announce that Max has graduated from med school -- or, as he says in his sing-song Yiddish accent, "I got for you a big surprise. I'm going to make for you a speech!" That kind of overtly-ethnic portrayal, the only kind portrayed in early talkies, would soon disappear, making movies waspier than an entomologist's greenhouse.

If I were the guy on the left, I'd be checking out
the doll with the slit skirt.

2) Eddie meets Patricia by rescuing her from a ladies room whose door is stuck shut. (Yes, he came in through the bathroom window.) No way would this be approved once the Hays Office dropped the hammer. Nor would they go for Eddie demanding, "Whatcha in there for, anyway?" But at least it gives me a new way to annoy my wife.

3) When Patricia yells at a couple of juvenile delinquents, the older of the two gives her an angry thumbs-up, which appears to be the '30s equivalent of "Up yours!" This gesture is worth trying at your next business meeting -- they'll never know what you're really thinking.

Uptown New York gives some interesting insight on what men expected of women in 1932. When Patricia asks Eddie why he's fallen so hard for her, he replies, "You're clean and good." This was movie-speak for "virgin," something we know she isn't. And once Eddie learns that Max had been her "sweetheart" two years earlier, it almost kills their marriage. Man, if that's what's going to stop Eddie, it's a good thing he's not around today.

"Of course I love you...
up to a point."

And talk about old-fashioned. The only reason Max didn't marry Patricia was because his family paired him off with a rich man's daughter so he could start a practice in Vienna before returning two years later. Such a trade-off! (Max is played by Leon Waycoff, who would soon change his name to Leon Ames, promptly becoming another of those "Oh, that guy!" character actors for the next 60 years. Don't believe me? Go here.)

Being a release from the long-forgotten Sono Art-World Wide studio, Uptown New York's low budget is onscreen throughout. Authentic New York shots consist only of stock footage, mostly under the credits. A sloppy process shot through a diner window looks like Times Square in the middle of an earthquake. And the climax -- Eddie begging Max to perform surgery on Patricia after she's hit by a truck -- is right out of Al Jolson's abysmal Say it with Songs from 1929.

Still, the movie has a nice scrappy feel about it, thanks mainly to Jack Oakie as Eddie. On loan from Paramount, Oakie is extremely likable. His naivete concerning Patricia's sexual history, along with his pride at owning a string of gumball machines across the city, is actually kind of charming -- you root for the little guy with big dreams. And your heart breaks when he and Patricia have to spend their wedding night in a rundown hotel room next to a drunken, noisy party because it's all he can afford. Ordinary schmos just trying to get by undoubtedly identified with Oakie in a way impossible with, say, William Powell.

"Look at me when you're
talking to me!"

Oakie's performance -- all of his performances, in fact --  are that much more remarkable when you consider the after-effect of his childhood bout of scarlet fever. As Oakie's temperature rose, he could hear his eardrums pop -- and, he told a reporter, "that was the last thing I ever heard." Next time you read about an A-lister wrecking his dressing room trailer because he's been supplied with stale peanuts, just watch any Jack Oakie movie and remember: he's lip-reading his co-stars because he's deaf.

Most astonishing about Uptown New York, however, is Sono Art-World Wide's notorious opening and closing logo: a comely young woman strategically holding two spinning globes directly in front of her. Supposedly dreamed up by studio investor (and one-time "king of comedy") Mack Sennett, it couldn't have been anything other than an outrageous in-joke meant to grab the audience's attention long enough for them to sit through an entire movie. 

What can I say? It worked for me.

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BREAKING NEWS: CIA REPORT EDITION

The Senate Intelligence Committee on Tuesday issued a sweeping indictment of the Central Intelligence Agency’s program to detain and interrogate terrorism suspects in the years after the Sept. 11 attacks, drawing on millions of internal C.I.A. documents to illuminate practices that it said were more brutal — and far less effective — than the agency acknowledged either to Bush administration officials or to the public.

When asked why tactics including sexual humiliation were part of the program, CIA spokesman Brad Lanes replied, "Hey, it worked for Bill Cosby."

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BREAKING NEWS: ROYALS EDITION

Prince William and Kate Middleton arrived in New York last night for a three-day tour. While William is meeting with President Obama in Washington today, Kate will be visiting an elementary school in East Harlem. 

Kate's spokesman says the Duchess is looking forward to taking part in traditional American customs at the school, including baking chocolate chip cookies, creating Christmas decorations from cardboard, and shooting an unarmed black teenager.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "DECOY" (1946)

Decoy is a good name for a movie that looks like a typical film noir, only to feature a plot twist alien to the genre; stars a couple of unknowns who look like two other, more famous actors; and features a third actor playing completely against type.

After Frank Olins is given the hot seat for an unspecified crime -- selling loose cigarettes? -- his two-timing girlfriend Margot Shelby seduces the noble Dr. Lloyd Craig into injecting him with the life-reviving drug Methylene Blue (which I hereby trademark as a new color for Uniqlo). 

It's all for love -- that is, the love she has for the 400-grand Olin's got socked away in the woods. Once Olin hands over a map leading to the money, he's plugged by Jim Vincent, his overpriced mouthpiece who's also Margot's third lover. How does this dame keep these guys straight?

Now in over his stethoscope, Dr. Craig is forced at gunpoint to drive Margot and Jim to the buried loot. Before the night is over, Margot has fatally run over Jim, found the money, and shot Dr. Craig to death. Or so she thinks.

Mirror mirror on the wall,
who's the damnedest of them all?

Filled with little moments that separate it from other low budget crime pictures, Decoy opens with the ghostly Dr. Craig washing his hands in a bathroom right out of the Beggars Banquet album cover. Gazing at his reflection in a broken mirror, he seems shocked to be alive. After silently hitching his way to San Francisco, he plugs Margot but good before expiring. The oddly-named cop Joe Portugal drops by a moment later to hear Margot's deathbed -- make that death couch -- confession. It's a testament to her strength that she can inaugurate a 65-minute flashback after being shot in the chest. Ambulance? What ambulance?

Margot's nastiness comes wrapped in silk, thanks to her generous boyfriend Frank Olins. But considering that she's got two other guys punching the clock in her bedroom, Olins, the toughest of the bunch, is probably the biggest sap of the three. Imagine being electrocuted, then brought back to life an hour later, only to be shot by your sweetie's lover before your body's barely warm again. Hardly seems worth the trip.

He's not the only one
playing with fire.

You can't help feel sorry for him -- after all, he's played by Robert Armstrong, who brought King Kong to New York 13 years earlier. His stunned, disbelieving reaction to just lighting a match after being brought back to life is almost pitiful. "I'm alive!" he shouts, arousing memories of Frankenstein, "I'm alive!" Not for long, bub, not for long.

Or maybe Grodin is a lot older than we realize.

And for all this meshugga, Dr. Craig gave up his altruistic career as a slum doctor. As with Frank Olins, you feel bad for the doc, a good guy suckered by a pretty face, a sweet line of lies, and a body to revive the dead for. Herbert Rudley, who plays Dr. Craig, juices up the sympathy by being a near-double for Charles Grodin, the ultimate hangdog actor.

A fur hat for a cold mind.

Unlike other tough dames of this genre, Margot is a sophisticated, smooth-talking Brit. That's due to "Miss Jean Gillie," as she's billed in the credits, being a sophisticated, smooth-talking Brit herself.  And by the looks of her, I'd wager she was being groomed as the next Joan Fontaine. (Aspiring actresses: if you want that kind of special billing, marry the movie's producer, as Miss Gillie did.)

A kiss to build a laugh on.

One more welcome twist is the great character actor Sheldon Leonard on the right side of the law for a change, as Det. Joe Portugal. Sneering as if his paycheck depended on it, he's all too familiar with Margot's type: the trollop with a heart of ice. Yet not even a misanthrope like Joe can resist her allure. Going in for a kiss requested by the dying Margot, he's unexpectedly spurned by the most contemptuous laugh ever captured on celluloid.

Supposedly a "lost" film until recently, Decoy is a welcome surprise to noir fans who thought they had seen them all. There was more than a little thought put into all aspects of its production, from the bizarre script to the atmospheric cinematography, and is the kind of Monogram production that rightfully drove the French cinema buffs into throes of extase. This Decoy, without doubt, is the real thing.

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BREAKING NEWS: CHOKEHOLD EDITION

In the wake of the controversy surrounding the grand jury's decision not to indict a New York policeman in the chokehold death of Eric Garner, the jury foreman decided to explain the reasoning behind the verdict.

Brad Lanes told reporters, "That tape isn't what it seems. Mr. Garner wasn't saying, 'I can't breathe.' According to the transcript provided by [Staten Island District Attorney] Dan Donovan, what he's really saying is, 'I can breathe, I can breathe.' He was just letting the officer know that the chokehold was no problem, and to continue doing his duty. 

"Not only that," Mr. Lanes continued, "the D.A. made sure that we heard the testimony of 50 people, mostly cops and EMT people who weren't even there. That's actually a good thing when you're in this kind of a situation. You don't want to trust your own eyes and ears when dozens of complete strangers can put everything into perspective. Forget about Fox News: the D.A. is really fair and balanced!"

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "THE BRAVE" (1997)

When you read "A FILM BY" attached to a person who's never even directed traffic, and "SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY" with a big name, it can mean only two things. The movie is going to be self-consciously grim with a lot of heavy symbolism, and the big name is onscreen for five minutes. Just warning you. 

If you wonder why a movie starring Johnny Depp and Marlon Brando flew under your radar, don't worry. The Brave was never released in America, and is available only as a DVD from Asia. For that, you can thank its critical reception following its premiere at the Cannes Film Festival. To say that it was negative would be to describe the bombing of Hiroshima as a stern warning. 

Certainly the story should have met the approval of America-loathing cheese-eaters. Raphael, a poor American Indian living with his family in a trailer next to a garbage dump, agrees to be tortured and murdered in exchange for $50,000. In the week he has remaining to live, he tries to make life better for his people. That's it, kimosabe. 

How. Or more like, what the --?

Johnny Depp's first of many mistakes, other than agreeing to direct and rewrite the script, was to cast himself as Raphael. Despite his claims to be part Cherokee or Creek -- disputed by the tribes themselves -- Depp looks as Native American as I do, which is Irish. Long black hair and a bandana do not an Indian make. You wonder why his character just doesn't hop a bus to the nearest modeling agency if he wants to make some serious dough -- he's more beautiful than most women.

Then there's the idea of going through with being murdered. (Every review of The Brave says Raphael has been hired to appear in a snuff movie, but that wasn't made clear to me.) If you received $50,000 and was told return in a week to get sliced, wouldn't you maybe, just maybe, get the the hell out of Dodge?

So just why does Raphael intend to return? Because the snuff movie producer trusts him. Oh, brother. They should have called this movie The Stupid. (In the novel upon which The Brave is based, Raphael is indeed a mentally-defective drunk.)

"Sorry you don't have a shirt, kid.
But you can ride on the merry-go-round!"

OK, so maybe you do have some kind of honor. You hold up your end of the bargain because you're, I dunno, brave. But you have two kids and a wife back in the trailer next to the dump. You'd do right by them. Like opening a savings account with that 50 grand. Getting advice from a good accountant. Buy them some nice clothes instead of the rags they're walking around in.

Nah, you'd do what Raphael does -- build a carnival out of scraps from the dump. Then take your kid grocery shopping, where you load up your carts with junk food and race up and down the aisles, knocking over displays and laughing. Then throw a party for the tribe. Why not just buy a case of Grey Goose while you're at it and call it a day? (One of the party guests, whose character credit is "MAN EATING LEG", is Iggy Pop, who also wrote the score. Because Iggy's just as Indian as Depp.)

Crucifixion symbolism alert!

If you think all this would attract too much attention, well, you just aren't ready to make a movie. Raphael's old partner in crime, Luis, drops by for his share of the score and, when he doesn't find it, beats up the wife and son. Because no self-respecting ex-con like Raphael would ever take revenge for such a thing. 

Depp washes his sins away and, in doing so,
drives all the girls in the audience crazy with lust.

Just kidding! That night, Raphael goes all Mike Tyson on Luis, first biting off his ear, then breaking his neck. And he does all this in front of two hookers. That's OK -- he's going to be murdered tomorrow anyway! But first, he stops off to see his father, who performs a ceremony calling up the spirits to... well, I dunno, the old guy didn't say exactly. Then Raphael goes to town the following morning to get killed. A real popcorn movie, The Brave is.

Last War Dance in Arizona.

Marlon "Special Appearance" Brando plays McCarthy, the snuff movie producer -- if that's what he really is -- as if he never left the set of Apocalypse Now. Pushing himself around in a wheelchair, blowing a harmonica, mumbling his flowery dialogue (self-written by the sounds of it) through suspiciously large, red lips, the gargantuan method actor has apparently been visited by the ghost of Lee Strasberg with the instruction, "You are a talking whale!"

It's commendable, in a way, that by this stage of the game, Brando didn't care what people thought of him. But in comparing his bizarre maundering here to his epic soliloquy in Julius Caesar, you're almost awed by how far down he's come -- or rolled. And yet... you keep yearning for him to reappear in The Brave because his wackiness stands in such stark relief to the rest of the movie.

As for Depp's direction, it's Very Serious. A low shot of Raphael on one side of the screen and a priest on the other, while divided by the church, is a little too on the nose. On the other hand, his choice of keeping The Brave dialogue-free for the first ten minutes is actually interesting. Best of all is the early scene with Raphael applying for a job in a rundown office with faulty fluorescent lighting, a manager with a bad attitude and an unidentified, muttering freak in the corner of the room. (You have to see it to really appreciate it -- kind of like Orson Wells meets David Lynch.) Raphael being led through an increasingly-hellish series of dark hallways and giant elevators to meet McCarthy gives The Brave a genuine, welcome creepiness that never returns. Other than Brando playing harmonica.

Between takes: Brando minus his
hairpiece, while Depp wonders what the hell
he's saying.

In the wake of The Brave's poor reception, Johnny must have thought twice about directing ever again. Certainly the idea of tackling something as serious as this never crossed his mind. From here on out, it was clear sailing with Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, Alice in Wonderland, and the Dark Shadows parody. Like his idol Marlon Brando, Johnny Depp is more than willing to go from "most respected actor of his generation" to "human cartoon." Maybe he is The Brave after all.

Confession: My copy of The Brave is 30 minutes shorter than its official two-hour running time. That in itself should have prevented me from writing about it, but probably made me that much more positive about the whole thing.

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MOVIE OF THE DAY: "THE FEARMAKERS" (1958)

I'm no film historian, but I'll go out on a limb and declare The Fearmakers the first movie to expose push-polling -- the "art" of asking a question a certain way in order to get the desired answer and, thus, steer the public to a certain way of thinking. Something like, "Do you think The Ol' Fish-Eye is one of the best blogs about obscure movies, family hijinx, and satire of current events that you've ever read?" 

Alan Eaton, an army vet released from an enemy detention camp during the Korean War, returns to the Washington PR firm he built with his business partner, who mysteriously died the day after selling out the company to Jim McGinnis. Eaton discovers that McGinnis has been working as a front for a shady organization intent on manipulating statistics in order to shape, rather than report, public opinion for their own nefarious reasons. The deeper Eaton digs for the truth, the more his life is in danger. He shoulda stayed in the POW camp.

Don't look now,  but the guy with the
notepad is redder than a blushing cardinal.

The Fearmakers never explicitly states that Communists are pulling the strings. But when one of McGinnis' clients is the Committee for the Abolition of Nuclear War, you know that there's a pinko in the woodpile -- lots of pinkos and they're everywhere: the flight Eaton takes to Washington, the boarding house where he stays, and, of course, at work. Responding to a beating by one of McGinnis' stooges, Eaton mutters, "I've been worked over by professionals. They call it co-existence!" -- the dog whistle of Communism. As John McCain, another POW, would tell you, peace is the first sign of treason.

"How did I afford an Edsel? Oh, I forgot,
it was free!"

Despite looking like a cross between Moe and Shemp Howard, Dana Andrews is agreeably low-key as Alan Eaton, prone to violence only when provoked. You can tell he's a tough guy -- when offered bacon and eggs for breakfast, he replies, "I generally have a cigarette and coffee in the morning." (Just how many people hearing that would have thought, Me too?) If that's not 1950s enough, Eaton's secretary Mary drives a spanking new Edsel, a desperate product placement for a car nobody wanted.

"Forget about 'Blue Moon' -- I'm such
a Commie, I sing 'Red Moon'!"

While Dick Foran and Kelly Thordsen are pitch-perfect as McGinnis and his scummy henchman Hal Loder, The Fearmakers' real surprise is 33 year-old Mel Torme as Barney Bond, the eager beaver of the PR company. Squinting through Coke-bottle glasses, nervously wiping sweat from his face, trying without success to win the respect of McGinnis, Torme makes for an unexpectedly good character actor in the Byron Foulger mold -- a mousy creep with a nasty side. Probably the only thing preventing him from carving out a second career in movies was the response from the audience -- "Hey, that's Mel Torme! What's he doing there?" (His credit reads "Presenting Mel Torme" -- conveniently forgetting that this was roughly his 15th movie appearance since 1943.)

By never using the word "Communist," The Fearmakers ages much better than most other anti-Red melodramas of its time. You can pretend that Democrats or Republicans are the bad guys here, and it would play just as well -- better, in fact, because they're pulling this kind of thing all the time. The brainwashing Eaton endured by the Reds is no different than that being conducted in the name of polling. Only now they call it "information gathering." Sounds less red, and more red, white and blue.

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ODD DAD OUT

Aside from that little tattoo incident involving my daughter, there was another event over Thanksgiving week that put my role as a parent into perspective.

The first evening our daughter was home, we were all sitting around the dining area table as she consumed a late dinner of arugula salad with dried cranberries. She told us about her college experience, eventually getting around to the various clubs across the campus. The usual suspects came up -- rap, film, art, whatever else kids think they're going to make money on one day -- but she had the idea of starting her own club. 

Noticing that a lot of classrooms were empty from around 3:00 to 5:00 in the afternoon, she decided it would be a neat idea provide a space for kids from the surrounding grade schools to do homework in a quiet, supportive environment, with she and her fellow collegians providing help and mentoring along the way.

This, my wife and I responded, was a good thing. A very good thing indeed.

In just the first few months of college, our daughter has become much more globally-conscious. One of her classes, urban farming, has made her think about providing organic fruits and vegetables to city kids who otherwise wouldn't have access to nutritional food. While I can't recount her exact words, it was clear that she was becoming more aware of her place in the world, and that it was up to her to make a difference. 

She seemed to be speaking mainly to her mom, so I quietly moved to the living room. It was then my daughter became quite emotional, wanting to clean up the mess that people have made of the world. She thanked her mom for raising her to be spiritually aware, and for feeding her a healthy, nutritional diet along the way while shunning junk food. It sounds trite the way I recount it here, but it was actually quite moving, almost overwhelmingly so.

As I sat there on the couch, I realized that I had nothing to do with any of this. It's rather humbling to reflect that in co-raising our daughter -- and being with her every day save a total of a week over the course of 18 years -- I had seemingly zero positive effect on her. 

Not that I was a negative influence. I shaped her sense of humor and showed her old movies. Cooked a lot of great meals. But that evening, it appeared that anything of real substance, something to take into adulthood in a positive, world-changing manner, was her mom's doing. And that's OK. Somebody had to do it. And as our friends would attest, I sure couldn't.

But what the hell -- thanks to me, my daughter's become a Lionel Barrymore fan. That should count for something.

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