Dick: I’ll be at 362-9296 for a while; then I’ll be at 648-0024 for about fifteen minutes; then I’ll be at 752-0420; and then I’ll be home, at 621-4598. Yeah, right George, bye-bye.

Linda: There’s a phone booth on the corner. You want me to run downstairs and get the number? You’ll be passing it.

— Play It Again, Sam (1972)

The gag of Dick’s reluctance to leave his work at work runs throughout this Woody Allen movie. It’s now an antiquated idea, with that little communication brick in your front pocket, but the social reliance on pay phones in the 70s and 80s continues to intrigue me. The film itself veers uncomfortably close to my own suavity while dating, as this trailer will attest.

Bonus: Did you know that the phrase “play it again, Sam” never appeared in Casablanca? Wikipedia sets us straight:

When Ilsa first enters the Café Americain, she spots Sam and asks him to “Play it once, Sam, for old times’ sake.” When he feigns ignorance, she responds, “Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.'”

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I was finally disappointed by a Marx Brothers movie.

My love for these wordy Three Stooges originated from my dad. In fact, my first memory of them was an audio WAV file on our first computer that could play audio… a clip of Groucho in Duck Soup, yelling “remember men, we’re fighting for this woman’s honor, which is probably more than she ever did.” I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed funny and my dad enjoyed it a lot. Sold!

Cut to adult Adam and I’ve seen every one of their flicks. There are obvious winners in their catalog: A Night at the Opera, A Day at the Races, etc. And sure, there’s the occasional misstep: Room Service wasn’t even written for them, and it shows. But I’ve never been bored with them on screen… until now.

A Night in Casablanca opens with a warning shot. None of the brothers are on screen until 5 or 10 minutes into the movie. I kindly assumed there was plot being developed, but I could see it plodding to a halt after 30 minutes like a thickening cement.

A bit of research reveals that the brothers were basically retired in 1946, but that they needed to raise money for broke Chico. So they reunited the band, and we all know how that works out.

In all fairness, there’s a few glimmers of greatness even as Groucho’s slouch seems more due to age than his shtick. Harpo still steals the show repeatedly, ever silent and deft in his physical comedy. But not enough to right this ship, one that was well out to sea when abruptly called back to port.

“I was about half in love with her by the time we sat down. That’s the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they’re not much to look at, or even if they’re sort of stupid, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.” -Holden Caulfield in J.D. Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye”

Although some part of me hates posting a quote of such stereotypical teenage angst, the sentiment still stands for me. Perhaps I’m still 18, and perhaps the book is popular because it is good.

Still need a palate cleanser? Woody Allen to Diane Keaton in “Manhattan”: I had a mad impulse to throw you down on the lunar surface and commit interstellar perversion with you.

When a shoelace comes undone, I stoop over and intertwine the strings in a very familiar way. My forward momentum continues as before.

When a long belt of rubber suddenly snaps off a car engine, a different chain of events occurs.

“September Girls” by Big Star is filling my car on a flaxen Friday evening. I’m flying down pavement toward Springfield, Ill., where new friends await with pints and tumblers in hand. It’s been a rare week, one where work and pleasure duel to the death and leave little room for my usual introspection. Piles of laundry and dishes litter my apartment. 80 degrees in October! Windows down.

What’s that noise? The first warning was an undercarriage sound, perhaps a small branch. It eventually works loose and I’m back at ease.

A battery warning light glows red; clearly unrelated. And besides, I just had the battery and alternator replaced a few months ago (see part 2, after the jump.) I’m ignoring it.

A second light blazes, this one yellow. It seems less urgent, yet tells me that my engine wants attention. Damn it. It’s escalating. I prepare to pull over.

Fever. The engine temperature gauge is reading “supernova meltdown.” Pinned to the right, PAST red. Holy hell.

The power steering fails. My little Ford Focus becomes more like a Mack truck. This is it. The end.

I glide the car toward an exit ramp. It rolls to a stop, where I kill the engine and pop the hood. Nothing seems amiss; but the sound! Sizzling bacon paired with boiling water. Oh dear god, what have I done?

I’ve managed to murder my car equidistant between Peoria and Springfield. I’m surrounded by giant windmills, more like Sancho Panza than Don Quixote.

A breeze brings an amplified disembodied voice. “And with first place, a time of 1:24…” The giant blades spin and I spot a steel shed not far from the exit.

A rodeo. No, horse barrel racing! I leave my faithless car for dead and walk toward the sound. Just as I reach the complex, the announcer proclaims, “That’ll do it for today, folks. Thanks again, and see you tomorrow!”

I purchase a bottle of water from the concession stand, an alien among these equine enthusiasts. They know nothing about my countless hours spent in Kansas documenting this lifestyle. I’m dressed for an evening out, not for horseshit. The sun dips low, threatening to snuff itself out. I’ve accepted my fate.

A few hours later, I’m sitting passenger in a tow truck (Billie Jo’s) back to civilization. There will be no fun tonight.

Continue reading →

A note about the song: Although Lennon obviously has numerous songs to choose from, I tend to always think of him when hearing “Yes It Is.” It really is one of the best by The Beatles.

I walked into a FedEx shop on Friday to pick up a package that had failed to reach my hands all week. The lady behind the counter immediately remarks, “you know he’s 70 today, right?” Who? What? My t-shirt. Abbey Road. The iconic image of the Fab Four walking like ducks in a row. I correct her: “I think it’s Saturday, actually.” She wouldn’t have it, even volunteering to look it up on Google right then and there. But she did seem to be in a better mood because of it, so I didn’t push too hard.

Step forward 3 hours later, where I’m sitting in a church listening to an organ concert. I’m the only person under 50, supple skin among winkles. During intermission, every other soul finds a conversation partner, while I sit near the front and ponder the construction of the pipe organ. The concert finally draws to an explosive end with Louis Vierne, and a woman taps me on the shoulder.

“You know, it’s John Lennon’s birthday tomorrow.”

I saw “The Social Network” over the weekend, and odds are that you did too: a $23 million weekend opening. Even Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg was reported to have snuck in a screening, despite swearing that he’d stay far away from the thing. He obviously saw the 97 rating on metacritic.com and just gave up.

So what did I like about it? Plenty, plenty, plenty.

DIALOGUE: It’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen such top-notch words tumbling forth from the screen. If screenwriter Aaron Sorkin doesn’t win a damn award, I’m deleting my Facebook account. A deluge of dialogue assaults the ears, with no chance of catching a break. It’s a cinema racquetball match, your own thoughts dumped to the curb for tomorrow’s garbage pickup. Oh, the rhythm! There were times I caught myself laughing a full two seconds after a joke, simply because my ape brain needed time to sort it out.

NERD TALK: I had concerns that techy jargon would get buried (or at least simplified) in fine Hollywood tradition. Instead, director David Fincher toed the line nicely by thrusting it right up front, cramming one early flashback chock full of wget commands, php references, and apache mentions into the first 15 minutes. Quick editing kept the scene from becoming dull, with rapid switching between the mahogany glitz of Harvard’s social parties and the birth of Facebook in Zuckerberg’s dorm room. Beer in hand, of course.

JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE: No hint of N*Sync, but Timberlake plays a great villain as Napster co-founder Sean Parker. With a penchant for young girls and cocaine, he’s fun to hate.

MUSIC: The soundtrack (save the Beatles track leading us to the credits – I won’t say which one) is composed by Nine Inch Nails frontman Trent Reznor and his long-time collaborator Atticus Ross. It reminds me a lot of the upside-down classical effort that Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood wrote for “There Will Be Blood.” Instrumental dissonance, with occasional moments where the music demands your full attention. I’m grateful they didn’t pepper the flick with indie hits.

There’s much to consider in this loose adaptation of the Facebook story. Where’s the line between fact and fiction? How quickly can ambition turn rotten? Thankfully, the often reckless Zuckerberg has built an empire 500 million strong, each ready to enact judgment through that tiny box that asks: “What’s on your mind?”

Further reading:

• Film version of Zuckerberg divides the generations
• The New Yorker profile on Zuckerberg
• Vanity Fair profile on Parker
• Zuckerberg on ‘The Simpsons’