THE END OF ENGLIGH

Dr. Drew Casper is the Alfred and Alma Hitchcock Professor Of American Film at the University of Southern California.  He is a published author on film.  I assume that the “Dr.” in front of his name means that he has a PhD.  Casper shows up often delivering “expert commentary” on DVDs.  I assume that he speaks English as a first language but somehow in his journey through academia he has not managed to master the rudiments of his native tongue.

His style of speaking involves a lot of rephrasing, designed, I suppose, to suggest the addition of nuance to the points he's making but adding up only to redundancy.  In his commentary on the recent DVD release of Notorious, for example, he says that Alicia “is out of control — she has lost control.”  These two phrases mean exactly the same thing — one or the other would have served perfectly well.  He refers to the famous key in the film as “a prop — an object, if you want.”  Yes, I will accept that a prop is an object, since a prop is always an object.  It's sort of like saying, “a person — a human being, if you want.”  This is a form of pretentious bloviation.

Casper misspeaks constantly in his commentary.  He says that Alex's mother “yields a lot of power” in Alex's home, when he means that she wields a lot of power.  Of a traveling shot close on Alicia and Devlin, Casper says it suggests that they are “floating on air, existing gravity.”  I'm not even sure what he actually meant to say there — “resisting gravity”?  Who knows?

Casper introduces the subject of Russian Constructivism and then goes on to refer to it more than once as Roman Contructivism, whatever that might be.  Casper also misuses language freely.  He says that German filmmakers “triumphed” the use of lighting as an expressive tool.  He doesn't seem to know or care that “triumph” is an intransitive and never a transitive verb.

The professor is promiscuously careless about details as well.  He refers to the German director “D. W. Pabst”.  He says at one point that Alex is taller than Alicia, when he's just been talking about the significance of him being shorter.  He says that in Hitchcock's films special effects are always in the service of technique, when he means always in the service of story or character.

Is there no editor or director present when Casper records his commentaries?  Doesn't Casper, or someone, listen to them after they're recorded to catch mistakes and suggest retakes?  Or is it the case that any old nonsense from the mouth of a man with a PhD is assumed to be authoritative?

Casper is not an idiot — he has many interesting things to say about the themes and strategies of Notorious — but he seems to feel no obligation whatsoever to present his analysis with even a modicum of intellectual rigor or discipline.  If Hitchcock had had the same attitude about filmmaking that Casper has about film criticism, we wouldn't be watching Hitchcock's films today.  Bloviating about them in such a scatter-brained way is a kind of insult to Hitchcock's professionalism.

Casper's poor language skills offer a terrifying insight into the modern academy, and modern academic standards in the area of film studies.  Presumably Casper doesn't fear that his students will note, much less correct, his mangling of English, though some of them would undoubtedly be capable of doing so.  They want good grades from him, after all.  Presumably, as the occupant of an endowed chair at his university, probably a tenured position, he doesn't fear the criticism of his fellow professors or supervisors, who would have a very hard time removing him from his job.  Perhaps they feel that since film is a visual medium, there's no need to speak about it in precise and correct language.

It's all very depressing.  When a professor at a major American university can get away with such shoddy speech, it's no wonder that American institutions of higher learning are turning out graduates who are semi-literate, who not only speak but think sloppily about film, among other things.

LET US NOW PRAISE FAMOUS MONSTERS

Forrest J. Ackerman died last Thursday, at the age of 92.  For anyone who knew his name when they were 12 or 13 or 14, the news comes like the news of Queen Victoria's passing to residents of the British Empire in 1901.  Ackerman presided over an empire of the imagination every bit as grand as Victoria's realm, and far more benign.  He was the editor of Famous Monsters Of Filmland, the sci-fi and horror movie fan magazine around which a generation of buffs rallied during their formative years.  It was a half-silly, half-serious publication devoted to the whole range and the whole history of fantasy on film.  It helped to create and validate the community of kids who loved film of this sort, and gave them permission to take it seriously.

Famous Monsters was single-handedly responsible for focusing my own love of movies.  It opened my eyes to silent film, because there were, after all, silent monster movies, and to other kinds of film.  When I was 12 I started buying books about the history of movies just for their monster movie content and ended up enthralled by every kind of movie.

In seventh grade I met two fellow students who were secret fans of the magazine and introduced me to it — within months we were making our own 8mm monster movies.  The three of us attended a science fiction convention in Washington, D. C. in the early Sixties where we actually met Forrest J. Ackerman (seen above, on the left, with Ray Harryhausen and Ray Bradbury.)  He took us out to lunch.  He took us and our interest in monster movies seriously.  All of us, now in our fifties, are still fanatics of the kind of movies “Forry” loved.

Such stories could be repeated endlessly.  Joe Dante, John Landis and Steven Spielberg were all fans of the magazine when they were kids.  In later life, Spielberg autographed a
poster of Close Encounters of the Third Kind for Ackerman, writing, “A
generation of fantasy lovers thank you for raising us so well.”

And so we all do — now and forever.

POKER AND PORN

Last night Jae I played a little poker at Planet Hollywood, without much luck.  At my table there was an extremely beautiful young woman, who played with a sense of fun and daring that was infectious.  She had a fresh, innocent quality which was deceiving — she was always playing games, check-raising on draws for example, which is a bold move in a Las Vegas poker room, where people don't mind putting you all-in if they think you're trying to mess with them.

Afterwards Jae said he thought he recognized the woman, and suddenly realized where he'd seen her before — in a porn movie, where she performed sex acts for pay under the name of Jenni Lee.  She's now “gone legit” and works as a model and professional poker player here in Las Vegas under her real name Stephanie Sadorra.  She's just 26.  Odd to move from porn to poker, where preserving your mystery is a key to winning.  On the other hand, she did bet heavily and make people pay to see her cards, which is also a key to winning.

There are many cute female poker players here in Las Vegas who dress provocatively, showing lots of cleavage, and flirt ostentatiously to distract men and put them off their game.  Ms. Sadorra wasn't that sort.  She was dressed modestly and paid personal attention only to her boyfriend, who was playing at a nearby table.  She looked more like the All-American girl in the photo at the head of this post (from her MySpace page) than like the provocative glamor girl gazing at herself in the mirror above.

Poker is a game where it's easy to leave your past behind in the intense concentration of excitement occasioned by each new fall of the cards.  That's part of the intoxication of gambling, which, as Walter Benjamin once observed, obliterates time.  I wonder if Ms. Sadorra looks at the faces of the people she's playing against and wonders if they've seen her in other contexts and think of her not as a pretty good poker player but as a very pretty ex-pornstar.

STUDIO SNOW

Next to real snow, there's nothing quite as lovely as studio snow in black-and-white films from Hollywood's Golden age.

shahn, at the ever-magical six martinis and the seventh art, is an aficionada of bogus blizzards on film and has posted some screen shots of my favorite ersatz snowfall in movies, from Swing Time.

If you live someplace warm, like the middle of the Mojave Desert, fix yourself some egg nog, light a fake fire, gaze through the window of your computer screen and enjoy the prop flakes in cozy comfort.  Better still, give Swing Time another spin on your DVD player and watch the imaginary snowflakes fall on Fred and Ginger as they sing and dance their way into your heart one more time.

THE BOY WITH THE GOLDEN ARM

My friend Jae had a great run at the poker tables during the first couple of days of his visit here, and I made a little money, too.  Then disaster struck, as it always does in poker, sooner or later.  I can't go into the horrifying details, in case there are children reading this post, but Jae and I got deeply depressed and believed that we were unworthy of the game of Texas Hold-'em.

Then Jae got the bright idea of playing a tournament, which doesn't require risking much money but can pay off handsomely.  We signed up for a noon contest at the Luxor.  I had a panic attack before the first hand was dealt, but settled down and played well.  I got some breaks, as you need to do in a tournament, and made the final table.  I held on to finish fourth, which paid $125 against the $33 buy-in.

Jae didn't cash and felt even worse than before.  We wandered over to the Monte Carlo poker room, where Jae lost some more money quickly, and I lost my Luxor winnings, and then some — but very slowly.

While I was doing this, Jae drifted around the casino like a lost soul.  For some reason he put five dollars down on the pass line at a craps table and the dealer handed him the dice — the last shooter at the table had just crapped out and nobody was having any luck with the bones.  When Jae established a point, the dealer told him to back up his bet with another five dollars.  What happened next is already part of the legend of Las Vegas.

Jae started a magical roll that seemed to go on forever, making point after point after point.  He could do no wrong with the dice.  His initial ten-dollar investment kept growing.  After a while a woman who was betting heavily on his rolls and winning big started placing bets in his name.  He won even more.  Jae eventually asked the dealer quietly if he should give the money for the bets back to the woman, now that he had so much.

“She's made five grand on your rolls,” the dealer whispered.  “You don't owe her anything.”  The woman, at the other end of the table, kept glancing tenderly at Jae, as though he were a long-lost love.  A sudden windfall of five large can do that to a person.

When I finally busted out at the poker table and tracked Jae down he was up over $400 on his ten-dollar investment.  I pulled him away from the table and urged him to cash in — his winnings more than covered all his poker losses since he hit town on this visit.

The dealers at the craps table had been looking at Jae in awe.  “He made all that from a ten-dollar bet,” they'd say to anyone who passed the table, pointing at his chips.  One dealer said, “I once made that much on a ten-dollar starting bet.”  “Yeah,” said another dealer, “but we saw this run, so we know it really happened.”

Yes, it did.  In the real-life fantasy land of Las Vegas.

MUCHAS GRACIAS, CON CHORIZO

Once more, against all odds, my friend Jae and I managed to prepare a splendid Thanksgiving feast, applying minimal cooking skills with fiendish precision.

Jae made his famous creamy mashed potatoes, we roasted a gigantic turkey to perfection and we stuffed it with an improvised dressing consisting of croutons, celery, carrots, onions, three kinds of mushrooms (Portobello, shitake and oyster) and chorizo, the spicy Mexican sausage.  An instant classic.  Next year, I'm going to add even more chorizo — it lent a bacon-y tang to the stuffing that was really spectacular.

Now the long days of turkey sandwiches begin — and however many sandwiches are consumed during those days, I'll be sorry to see them come to an end.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: A CELL PHONE PHOTO FOR TODAY


Jae Song sent this cellph portrait, taken on the sidewalks of New York, from his new phone cam . . . sometime in 2004, I believe.

Jae rolled into town yesterday for his annual Dream Thanksgiving Vacation In Vegas.  We had a great meal at Mon Ami Gabi then headed straight for the poker room at Planet Hollywood.  We sat down at a no-limit table for four or five hours, during which time I made $45 and Jae made $50.  Not what you'd call a killing but way better than losing.  Picking up some beer on the way home, we felt that we were getting it for free, since it was bought with ill-gotten gambling funds, lifted from the friendly folks we played with.  It tasted better than cheap American beer has any right to taste.

MARKET PREDICTIONS

I have no money in the stock market.  I owned a tiny amount of Wachovia paper, given to me on the day of my birth, which I've always held onto for sentimental reasons but which is now more or less worthless after the company's collapse– the end of an era.  I also have no specialized insight into the market — otherwise I would have sold the Wachovia stock long ago.

Based on the above non-credentials I hereby offer my own personal market predictions, on the theory that the common-sense intuitions of an outsider are bound to be at least as reliable as the proven ignorance of the insiders.

The market will bottom out somewhere between five and six thousand points — closer to six.  I base this on a fact my friend Cotty reminded me of recently — the market stood at around six thousand points before the recent fantasy-based boom cycles, which are now over, and so is a fair measure of the real value of the shares.

When the market hits five thousand-plus, there will be a slight rebound — to somewhere between six and seven thousand, closer to six, where things will rest for the next five years or so, until we enter a new period of growth.

The logical strategy for current larger-scale investors is clear — have enough resources on hand outside the market to cover basic bare-bones expenses for five years, leave the remainder, if there is any, in stocks (assuming they're already there) and wait for the rebound.

Of course, it's always possible that there will be no rebound within that time frame.  If the market drops below five thousand, there will be no bottom — panic will rule and the next Great Depression will be upon us.  We'll be facing at least three decades of nightmare — unless we get really lucky and another world war pulls us out of the abyss ahead of the natural cycle.

You heard it here first.

THE BIBLE AND MADAME de . . .

It's almost impossible to understand the culture we live in without knowing the Bible, simply because the culture we live in was created by people for whom the Bible was a central text, a central reference point.  I'm speaking of the Bible as a literary document, a compendium of phrases, images, folk wisdom and psychological insight — all of which it is, quite apart from its specifically religious nature.

This was brought home to me recently listening to the commentary on the recent DVD release by Criterion of Max Ophüls's The Earrings Of Madame de . . . .  It's delivered by two female academics who chatter on at great length about the sexual politics of the film, referencing Freud and Stendhal promiscuously but missing the film's central reference to a passage in the Gospels.

[Warning — plot spoilers ahead . . .]

The commentators disagree about whether or not Louise, the film's main character, consummates her adulterous affair with Count Donati.  This despite the fact that, while praying to the Blessed Virgin in private, she says she was unfaithful “only in thought”.  “And what is a thought?” she asks the Virgin.  One commentator suggests that Louise, an inveterate liar, is here lying to the Mother Of God.  This is, in itself, quite preposterous.  Why would anyone pray to a saint who couldn't see through a human lie?

Both commentators miss the real import of the question — its reference to Jesus's teaching in Matthew's gospel . . . “Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.”

It is precisely this reference which goes to the heart of the film's themes.

Louise's husband in the film commits adultery in the flesh, but in a discreet way that does not disturb the civil compromise of their marriage.  He loves his wife and tolerates her flirtations, because he believes that, while she might not love him, she loves no one else.  For him, this isn't much of a bargain, but it is the bargain on which his whole life depends, as we eventually see.

He might have tolerated a discreet adulterous affair on her part, as long as it was frivolous.  When she falls in love with someone else, he is destroyed.  He cannot tolerate her committing adultery in her heart.

Seen from this perspective it's impossible to read the husband's violent and destructive actions as exercises in patriarchal authority — they are, in fact, exercises in existential despair.  It is also impossible to read Louise's actions as exercises in pure passion, pure self-realization, because they also involve extreme cruelty towards her husband.  Perhaps she doesn't know what she means to him, but we cannot help feeling that she should know — that not knowing, or caring, involves a deep moral failure . . . deeper than any casual extramarital affair would represent.

At the beginning of the film, as Louise is searching through her possessions for something to sell to raise some quick cash, she comes across a prayer book, or an edition of the New Testament, with a cross on its cover.  “I need you now,” she says to the book — meaning, I need your help raising the cash.  Seen retrospectively, in light of her last question to the Virgin, the need she expresses in this first scene has a profound ironic implication.  What she really has needed all along was an appreciation of what it means to commit adultery in one's heart — an appreciation of its extreme seriousness.

Louise's question is not asked at the end of the novel on which Ophüls's film was based — there is no scene in the book corresponding to the one in the film in which Louise donates her fatal earrings to the Virgin.  This was Ophüls's invention — and it's the key to the story he was telling.  For Ophüls (above), a Jew, there was probably no religious dimension to the Christian text he was referencing, but there was certainly a reference to the psychological truth at the heart of Jesus's words.  It is, as I say, a vital element of the film unavailable to anyone unfamiliar with those words.

Ophüls was a highly educated and cultured man.  In 1954 he would have assumed that any educated and cultured viewer of The Earrings of Madame de . . . would register the allusion to the gospel text, and note the irony of a vain and self-centered woman like Louise being clueless about it, even as she prays to her saint for the things she wants in life.  54 years on, we cannot assume that even a college professor will have a clue about it.

LAMB CURRY

My
curry is improvised from an old
Joy of Cooking rule for stew and
various hints thrown out by my brother-in-law Simon, who makes a fine
curry, refined during his years in Kenya. (His goat curry, served at a
picnic by a river on the edge of the Nairobi Game Park, was my first
meal in East Africa, sometime in the last century.)



The
only real secret to simple, reliable curry, however, is Patak's Curry
Paste, available at many local supermarkets, worth tracking down at a
specialty store if not.  (It can be had via Amazon as well.)  You need a jar of mild and a jar of hot, so you
can mix to taste.



Start
with some vegetable stock. This used to be collected from the run-off
of boiled vegetables of every kind, but since we now steam our
vegetables, the liquor from soaked and boiled dried beans is a good
substitute, especially for curry. Pour enough of it into a stew pot to
comfortably cover the meat and vegetables you will be adding — lean
chunks of lamb, or goat (I like to use chunks cut off of thick lamb
chops, with all the fat removed, but there are cheaper ways to go), an
equal volume of pearl onions, an equal volume of carrots cut into
pieces about the size of pearl onions, an equal volume of potatoes, cut
into chunks of a similar size, and three or four tablespoons of peeled
and chopped ginger root.



Begin
to warm the vegetable stock and stir in table-spoonfuls of curry paste.
I like a 2 to 1 hot to mild ratio, for a very — very — spicy but not
searing flavor, but do it to taste. About six table-spoonfuls at least
will be required. You can tell by tasting when you've got enough.



Bring
this mixture to a boil, then throw in the ginger and the carrots, cover
tightly and reduce heat to produce a steady but not furious bubbling.
After ten minutes, put in the lamb. After another ten minutes, put in
the onions and the potatoes. After another twenty minutes, cut off the
heat, let the pot cool, and then put it in the refrigerator overnight.
(This must be made the day before it is eaten.)



This
is a dish to fiddle with — placing the lamb in later if you like it
rarer, the carrots in later if you like them crisper, the onions and
potatoes in earlier if you like them mushier, more or less ginger and
curry paste.



The
next day, put what you want to eat into a smaller pot (you can freeze
what's left, if any) and heat it up, thickening it with some dollops of
sour cream if you like. Serve it over basmati rice, and no other kind,
with, on the side, some mango chutney and raita — plain yoghurt and
peeled, thinly sliced cucumbers, chilled — and some kind of plain
bread (real Indian bread, like poori, is best but too hard to make.)
Drink beer with it.