As Christmas approaches, I realise that I have no real gameplan for the holidays.
I have to be at home in Connecticunt for the Big Day itself, after which I return to work the next day (my kitchenmate's on vacation, so...), and then it's a waiting game until New Year's Eve, which I also have to work. Most of my friends, once a close-knit tribe living within a stone's throw of one another, have dispersed with the inevitablity of marriages, kids, and the simple fact that living in Brooklyn is expensive as a motherfucker, so I can't easily attend any Chrismakwanzukkah shindigs, even if I arrived late, and I have heard nothing thus far about a New Year's thing, although I will probably turn up the next day at the home of a pal who lives near Ground Zero. If not, I'll wring in the New Year all by my lonesome, or with my friend Jessica.
I doubt the mermaid who swims in my dreams will be free, but it would be nice to see her. And I'll understand if she has stuff to do in her semi-distant homeland, but I will think of her and raise a toast to her fine, absent ass. God DAMN, she's purty. I just wanna kiss her right now...
And I swear that for the first time in years I will not depress myself by playing U2's "New Year's Day," because I can smell major, positive change coming for me in 2007, in all aspects of my life. So wish me luck, dear readers.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
FURTHER REASON TO LOVE THE COMICS BIZ: THOSE CRAZY SPANIARDS
Here's an incredible story from my operative in Eastbourne, the UK; when I get the source of the news item I will post it:
Spanish Comics Convention Scandalized by Live Sex Performance
The Granada Comics Festival, a relatively unassuming comics
convention taking place in the southern Spanish city of Granada in
mid- March, became an unlikely lightning rod for scandal and
frontpage news across Spain, when convention promoters staged an
expensive awards ceremony to purportedly honor the convention and its
guests; a purpose that seemed questionable by the time the stage gave
way to a performance of live sex and re-enactments of the WTC
attacks, amongst other controversial activity.
The show took place in an auditorium in El Sacromonte, the city's
historic section known for a Moorish influence that predates the
Spanish crusades. Attendees took their seats and faced a breathtaking
view of La Alhambra (one of Europe's largest tourist attractions)
through the glass walls behind the stage, the ancient Moor fortress
glowing orange in the night sky and setting the stage for what most
expected to be a relatively tasteful presentation of various comics-
related awards.
Though rumors had circulated among some of the convention exhibitors
and guests that the show would prove controversial, few had any idea
of the extent this would prove to be true. "We heard rumors of some
kind of sex show at the awards," said Scottish cartoonist Lorna
Miller, creator of the alternative comic Witch. "But if I had known
exactly what was in store I wouldn't have gone."
The ceremony began in standard enough fashion, with an emcee prepping
the crowd with jokes about the Spanish comic-book industry before
handing out awards. Soon, however, the emcee was joined on stage by
Alejandro Casasola, the founder and director of the convention, and
the two presented awards to several local politicians and civil
servants who were responsible for providing the funding and other
assistance necessary to stage the convention.
One crucial difference between many European comics conventions and
American conventions is government funding. In Europe, many arts
festivals -- like the 7th annual Granada Comics Festival -- are
subsidized by the government and open free to the public. The
relatively small Granada event, taking place outside under two tents
in the heart of the small city, included only a few dozen exhibitors
and a small handful of prominent guests (including Hate creator Peter
Bagge and Spanish cartoonist Miguelanxo Prado).
Nonetheless, the centralized location and free admission resulted in
over 50,000 visitors during the event's four days, a number
comparable to attendance at the San Diego Comic-Con International,
regarded as one of the U.S.'s largest conventions of any type (Unlike
Granada, however, entrance fees to Comic-Con start at $45.)
Rumors circulated throughout the convention that the festival's
organizers had been growing increasingly frustrated by their
relationship with local authorities. The perception was that
government interest in the convention was waning despite steady
growth for the show over its seven years of existence. One source
told the Journal that funding for this year's convention had come at
the 11th hour, forcing organizers to go out of pocket to cover
expenses that came due prior to the convention opening. Amongst the
organizations that helped fund the Granada Festival were the city
council and the Youth Institute of Andalucía, and representatives for
both were on hand at the awards ceremony to graciously accept the
formal "thank yous" from Casasola, commending the convention's
cultural value to the city and youth culture in general.
This vocal support from local officials, however tenuous to begin
with, quickly turned into fear and then disgust and outrage. As the
show's emcee was about to begin giving out the comic awards, a dozen
or so men (and one woman in a burka) suddenly stormed the auditorium
dressed as Afghan terrorists, firing what appeared to be real weapons
and shouting angrily in Spanish. Although it was quite clear from the
outset that the men were actors posing as terrorists and shooting
blanks, the deafening sound of automatic weapons, coupled with the
heightened sensitivity worldwide to terrorist activity, clearly
frightened more than a few of the audience members. "Have you ever
heard what [real gunfire] is like? It's loud," stated Miller,
sarcastically adding that, "I really love it when I go out for a
night's entertainment and sit shaking like a quivering fool trying
not to have a full-blown panic attack."
The terrorists took the stage, led by an actor looking uncannily like
Osama bin Laden. Bagge's fear became most pronounced when the
terrorists -- who had already taken the emcee backstage, stripped him
to his undergarments, and strapped what looked like a bomb to his
chest before bringing him back out -- began demanding the names of
the award-winners, so they could be brought onstage and shot. Bagge
figured that, as a featured guest of the convention, he was going to
be one of the award recipients. He was right.
"I was dragged by the collar to the podium by one of the
'terrorists,' who then pointed a Russian grenade launcher at my head
and barked insults at me in Spanish," said Bagge. "I then was tied by
the wrists to the other award recipients, and was told that were all
going to be killed once the show was over."
Each award-winner at the show was thrust in front of the podium and
given the opportunity to say something. A few demurred; Bagge earned
the biggest laugh. Clearly confused by what was going on and with and
a grenade launcher to his head, he shrugged his shoulders and
blurted, "Gracias?"
Another award-winner, the publisher of the Spanish-language edition
of Art Spiegelman's Maus, clearly got into the spirit of the event.
Accepting the award for "Best Foreign Graphic Novel," the publisher
was dragged to podium by the terrorists and, with weapons pointed at
him, stated in Spanish, "The Jews deserved it!"
By this point, most everyone in attendance understood that everything
taking place was an act, but that didn't seem to fully mitigate the
uneasiness and anxiety that permeated the crowd. Bagge, who was
warned in advance that he was in for a night of controversy, still
was not prepared for what took place. "I have to tip my hat to them
for not only freaking me out, but for scaring the living shit out of
me at times," he said. While on stage, he reported that "I watched
members of the audience either flee or cringe in horror, though a few
jumped up and down while snapping photos and shouting with glee."
Before the awards were handed out, the terrorists illustrated their
disgust for Western culture by burning photographs of the Virgin
Mary, Federico Garcia Lorca, and McDonald's, amongst others. A
particularly chilling moment took place after the terrorists knocked
the top off the stage's podium. The podium had resembled one of the
sections of Stonehenge, with one shorter, horizontal column resting
atop two taller, vertical columns. With the top removed, the
resemblance of the two standing columns to the World Trade Towers was
lost on no one. When the Osama lookalike casually tossed a paper
airplane at the columns and -- despite the flimsy prop barely
brushing against one column -- both dramatically burst into flames, a
conflation of uncomfortable gasps and moans from the audience could
be heard among the cheering, trigger-happy actors jumping up and down
on stage in mock-triumph.
Amazingly, the most controversial part of the show had yet to begin.
While all the award recipients were being tied up together on stage,
the Osama bin Laden character had been sitting cross-legged on the
floor, casually reading random comic books scattered on the floor.
His initial look of disgust and disapproval slowly metamorphosed into
one of mild amusement and ultimately wild elation. The actor suddenly
stood up, revealing what was essentially the "moral" of the
production: Comic books had made him see the light about Western
civilization.
"'Osama,' who'd been reading some of these comics that he was going
to burn, suddenly declares, 'These comics are great! I've been wrong
all along! Hooray for Western civilization!,'" said Bagge.
Music began filling the auditorium, and the woman wearing the Burka
onstage drew attention to herself for the first time by pulling it
over her head and revealing herself to be completely naked. One of
the terrorists also stripped, and within moments the woman, kneeling
in front of him, began performing oral sex on him.
Over the course of ten or 15 minutes, the couple progressed to full
intercourse, scandalizing much of the audience. By this point, all of
the local politicians and civil servants in attendance had left in
disgust along with other random audience members.
With the fornicating couple still on full-display, the show kicked
into its last act. "Suddenly we comic-book people were all right in
'Osama's' book, so the terrorists untied us all," said Bagge. "Then
a
chorus line of go-go dancers come out and the terrorists all start
singing the theme song to the Spanish version of 'The Making of the
Band,' while the fornicators, who still occupy center stage, go at it
doggy style."
Whether in spite of or because of the controversy, Bagge was
impressed. "The juxtaposition of all of these elements was sheer
brilliance. It was the most mind-blowing extravaganza I've ever seen
in my life; I hope [Eisner Awards Emcee] Scott Shaw! is taking
notes!," he quipped.
Others were not so entertained. "Yes, it was shocking," said Miller.
"But only in the way all bad taste is shocking. It's easy to shock.
And you know who gets shocked the easiest by sex and violence? Anyone
who has experienced both at the same time without wanting to."
Miller's distaste was shared by the local authorities, who denounced
the show as "vulgar, disgusting, and insulting," and were meeting to
discuss withdrawing funding from the comics festival as a result of
the show. "We wish to separate ourselves completely from this," one
official told a local newspaper.
Casasola defended the show to local media on artistic terms, stating
that "Comics are about provoking, transgressing, and breaking rules,"
but some questioned Casasola's motivation. One source who wished to
remain anonymous told the Journal that Casasola's motives were more
about politics than artistic expression. "[Casasola] had all but
given up on the future of the fair, and this was his way of going out
with a bang and getting back at the politicians he was struggling
with," the source said.
Some speculated after the show that Casasola had gone as far to
divert this year's funding to pay for the awards ceremony, adding
insult to injury for the local politicians, though, Casasola and
others denied it. The production, which was directed by a well-known
independent filmmaker in Spain, Bajo Ulloa, also featured nationally-
recognized actors in the roles of Osama bin Laden and the ceremony's
emcee, while the fornicating couple were successful adult films stars
in Spain. The high-profile of many of the cast and crew led to
speculation that the show was a very expensive production, one that
Casasola, who earns no money from the convention and makes a living
as a private eye, could not have afforded without utilizing the
festival's funding.
Remarkably, city officials had yet to reprimand Casasola at presstime
in any substantive way, although local religious figures had asked
citizens to pray for those in attendance. No criminal charges were
filed, and contrary to overwhelming speculation following the
ceremony that funding for next year's festival would be swiftly
pulled or that Casasola would be immediately removed from his
position, no decisions have been made after several hearings and
there remains a chance that not only will the show go on next year,
but Casasola may even be running it.
"I have to say that Alejandro [Casasola] is the ballsiest guy I've
ever met," said Bagge. "We were tied together onstage while all of
this lunacy was going on, and for a guy who was probably going to be
crucified for this, he was amazingly indifferent. He doesn't have a
clue how to book a flight or stage an art exhibit [a billed
exhibition of Bagge's art at the festival failed to materialize due
to organizational mistakes], but he puts on one helluva show."
Spanish Comics Convention Scandalized by Live Sex Performance
The Granada Comics Festival, a relatively unassuming comics
convention taking place in the southern Spanish city of Granada in
mid- March, became an unlikely lightning rod for scandal and
frontpage news across Spain, when convention promoters staged an
expensive awards ceremony to purportedly honor the convention and its
guests; a purpose that seemed questionable by the time the stage gave
way to a performance of live sex and re-enactments of the WTC
attacks, amongst other controversial activity.
The show took place in an auditorium in El Sacromonte, the city's
historic section known for a Moorish influence that predates the
Spanish crusades. Attendees took their seats and faced a breathtaking
view of La Alhambra (one of Europe's largest tourist attractions)
through the glass walls behind the stage, the ancient Moor fortress
glowing orange in the night sky and setting the stage for what most
expected to be a relatively tasteful presentation of various comics-
related awards.
Though rumors had circulated among some of the convention exhibitors
and guests that the show would prove controversial, few had any idea
of the extent this would prove to be true. "We heard rumors of some
kind of sex show at the awards," said Scottish cartoonist Lorna
Miller, creator of the alternative comic Witch. "But if I had known
exactly what was in store I wouldn't have gone."
The ceremony began in standard enough fashion, with an emcee prepping
the crowd with jokes about the Spanish comic-book industry before
handing out awards. Soon, however, the emcee was joined on stage by
Alejandro Casasola, the founder and director of the convention, and
the two presented awards to several local politicians and civil
servants who were responsible for providing the funding and other
assistance necessary to stage the convention.
One crucial difference between many European comics conventions and
American conventions is government funding. In Europe, many arts
festivals -- like the 7th annual Granada Comics Festival -- are
subsidized by the government and open free to the public. The
relatively small Granada event, taking place outside under two tents
in the heart of the small city, included only a few dozen exhibitors
and a small handful of prominent guests (including Hate creator Peter
Bagge and Spanish cartoonist Miguelanxo Prado).
Nonetheless, the centralized location and free admission resulted in
over 50,000 visitors during the event's four days, a number
comparable to attendance at the San Diego Comic-Con International,
regarded as one of the U.S.'s largest conventions of any type (Unlike
Granada, however, entrance fees to Comic-Con start at $45.)
Rumors circulated throughout the convention that the festival's
organizers had been growing increasingly frustrated by their
relationship with local authorities. The perception was that
government interest in the convention was waning despite steady
growth for the show over its seven years of existence. One source
told the Journal that funding for this year's convention had come at
the 11th hour, forcing organizers to go out of pocket to cover
expenses that came due prior to the convention opening. Amongst the
organizations that helped fund the Granada Festival were the city
council and the Youth Institute of Andalucía, and representatives for
both were on hand at the awards ceremony to graciously accept the
formal "thank yous" from Casasola, commending the convention's
cultural value to the city and youth culture in general.
This vocal support from local officials, however tenuous to begin
with, quickly turned into fear and then disgust and outrage. As the
show's emcee was about to begin giving out the comic awards, a dozen
or so men (and one woman in a burka) suddenly stormed the auditorium
dressed as Afghan terrorists, firing what appeared to be real weapons
and shouting angrily in Spanish. Although it was quite clear from the
outset that the men were actors posing as terrorists and shooting
blanks, the deafening sound of automatic weapons, coupled with the
heightened sensitivity worldwide to terrorist activity, clearly
frightened more than a few of the audience members. "Have you ever
heard what [real gunfire] is like? It's loud," stated Miller,
sarcastically adding that, "I really love it when I go out for a
night's entertainment and sit shaking like a quivering fool trying
not to have a full-blown panic attack."
The terrorists took the stage, led by an actor looking uncannily like
Osama bin Laden. Bagge's fear became most pronounced when the
terrorists -- who had already taken the emcee backstage, stripped him
to his undergarments, and strapped what looked like a bomb to his
chest before bringing him back out -- began demanding the names of
the award-winners, so they could be brought onstage and shot. Bagge
figured that, as a featured guest of the convention, he was going to
be one of the award recipients. He was right.
"I was dragged by the collar to the podium by one of the
'terrorists,' who then pointed a Russian grenade launcher at my head
and barked insults at me in Spanish," said Bagge. "I then was tied by
the wrists to the other award recipients, and was told that were all
going to be killed once the show was over."
Each award-winner at the show was thrust in front of the podium and
given the opportunity to say something. A few demurred; Bagge earned
the biggest laugh. Clearly confused by what was going on and with and
a grenade launcher to his head, he shrugged his shoulders and
blurted, "Gracias?"
Another award-winner, the publisher of the Spanish-language edition
of Art Spiegelman's Maus, clearly got into the spirit of the event.
Accepting the award for "Best Foreign Graphic Novel," the publisher
was dragged to podium by the terrorists and, with weapons pointed at
him, stated in Spanish, "The Jews deserved it!"
By this point, most everyone in attendance understood that everything
taking place was an act, but that didn't seem to fully mitigate the
uneasiness and anxiety that permeated the crowd. Bagge, who was
warned in advance that he was in for a night of controversy, still
was not prepared for what took place. "I have to tip my hat to them
for not only freaking me out, but for scaring the living shit out of
me at times," he said. While on stage, he reported that "I watched
members of the audience either flee or cringe in horror, though a few
jumped up and down while snapping photos and shouting with glee."
Before the awards were handed out, the terrorists illustrated their
disgust for Western culture by burning photographs of the Virgin
Mary, Federico Garcia Lorca, and McDonald's, amongst others. A
particularly chilling moment took place after the terrorists knocked
the top off the stage's podium. The podium had resembled one of the
sections of Stonehenge, with one shorter, horizontal column resting
atop two taller, vertical columns. With the top removed, the
resemblance of the two standing columns to the World Trade Towers was
lost on no one. When the Osama lookalike casually tossed a paper
airplane at the columns and -- despite the flimsy prop barely
brushing against one column -- both dramatically burst into flames, a
conflation of uncomfortable gasps and moans from the audience could
be heard among the cheering, trigger-happy actors jumping up and down
on stage in mock-triumph.
Amazingly, the most controversial part of the show had yet to begin.
While all the award recipients were being tied up together on stage,
the Osama bin Laden character had been sitting cross-legged on the
floor, casually reading random comic books scattered on the floor.
His initial look of disgust and disapproval slowly metamorphosed into
one of mild amusement and ultimately wild elation. The actor suddenly
stood up, revealing what was essentially the "moral" of the
production: Comic books had made him see the light about Western
civilization.
"'Osama,' who'd been reading some of these comics that he was going
to burn, suddenly declares, 'These comics are great! I've been wrong
all along! Hooray for Western civilization!,'" said Bagge.
Music began filling the auditorium, and the woman wearing the Burka
onstage drew attention to herself for the first time by pulling it
over her head and revealing herself to be completely naked. One of
the terrorists also stripped, and within moments the woman, kneeling
in front of him, began performing oral sex on him.
Over the course of ten or 15 minutes, the couple progressed to full
intercourse, scandalizing much of the audience. By this point, all of
the local politicians and civil servants in attendance had left in
disgust along with other random audience members.
With the fornicating couple still on full-display, the show kicked
into its last act. "Suddenly we comic-book people were all right in
'Osama's' book, so the terrorists untied us all," said Bagge. "Then
a
chorus line of go-go dancers come out and the terrorists all start
singing the theme song to the Spanish version of 'The Making of the
Band,' while the fornicators, who still occupy center stage, go at it
doggy style."
Whether in spite of or because of the controversy, Bagge was
impressed. "The juxtaposition of all of these elements was sheer
brilliance. It was the most mind-blowing extravaganza I've ever seen
in my life; I hope [Eisner Awards Emcee] Scott Shaw! is taking
notes!," he quipped.
Others were not so entertained. "Yes, it was shocking," said Miller.
"But only in the way all bad taste is shocking. It's easy to shock.
And you know who gets shocked the easiest by sex and violence? Anyone
who has experienced both at the same time without wanting to."
Miller's distaste was shared by the local authorities, who denounced
the show as "vulgar, disgusting, and insulting," and were meeting to
discuss withdrawing funding from the comics festival as a result of
the show. "We wish to separate ourselves completely from this," one
official told a local newspaper.
Casasola defended the show to local media on artistic terms, stating
that "Comics are about provoking, transgressing, and breaking rules,"
but some questioned Casasola's motivation. One source who wished to
remain anonymous told the Journal that Casasola's motives were more
about politics than artistic expression. "[Casasola] had all but
given up on the future of the fair, and this was his way of going out
with a bang and getting back at the politicians he was struggling
with," the source said.
Some speculated after the show that Casasola had gone as far to
divert this year's funding to pay for the awards ceremony, adding
insult to injury for the local politicians, though, Casasola and
others denied it. The production, which was directed by a well-known
independent filmmaker in Spain, Bajo Ulloa, also featured nationally-
recognized actors in the roles of Osama bin Laden and the ceremony's
emcee, while the fornicating couple were successful adult films stars
in Spain. The high-profile of many of the cast and crew led to
speculation that the show was a very expensive production, one that
Casasola, who earns no money from the convention and makes a living
as a private eye, could not have afforded without utilizing the
festival's funding.
Remarkably, city officials had yet to reprimand Casasola at presstime
in any substantive way, although local religious figures had asked
citizens to pray for those in attendance. No criminal charges were
filed, and contrary to overwhelming speculation following the
ceremony that funding for next year's festival would be swiftly
pulled or that Casasola would be immediately removed from his
position, no decisions have been made after several hearings and
there remains a chance that not only will the show go on next year,
but Casasola may even be running it.
"I have to say that Alejandro [Casasola] is the ballsiest guy I've
ever met," said Bagge. "We were tied together onstage while all of
this lunacy was going on, and for a guy who was probably going to be
crucified for this, he was amazingly indifferent. He doesn't have a
clue how to book a flight or stage an art exhibit [a billed
exhibition of Bagge's art at the festival failed to materialize due
to organizational mistakes], but he puts on one helluva show."
IT'S ART! IT'S PORN! EVERYBODY'S HAPPY! — THE BEAVER SHOT AS ART
There's a new show running at Manhattan's Gagosian Gallery through December 22 featuring the work of painter John Currin, and it's garnering a bit attention thanks to some of its subject matter. Nudity in the arts is certainly nothing new, nor is sexually explicit imagery, but it's bound to cause a stir in these hypocritically puritanical times when someone walks into a gallery and finds what can be construed as beaver shots hung on the wall in all their gynecological glory. Currin's "Rotterdam" (2006) is such a work, and when first encountered it exudes the ambience common to the photography in such periodicals as HUSTLER, PINK PARADE, and OPEN WIDE, but upon closer observation the piece is far less off-putting for the casual viewer than the you-can-see-her-lunch nudie mag aesthetic.
"Rotterdam" (2006)
The composition is common to erotic art. Two lovers entwined, engaged in intimate contact on a large, comfy bed, both appearing to be enjoying each other. What is uncommon about the piece is the — excuse the term — in your face focus given to the figures' genitalia, and while good, old-fashioned osh-osh has been depicted in art a gazillion times since the day a horny caveman first fashioned one of those goddesses with the huge tits and Cro-Magnon badunkadunk, it's unusual to witness such frank presentation for general consumption.
The "window dressing" present is straight out of the ABC's of porno: sexy stockings and garter belt, lace gloves, ankle jewelry, "fuck me" pumps, a necklace with a dangling bauble that accentuates the female's naked flesh, sleepy/ecstatic facial expression that passes for what was once known as "swooning." It's all there, but the imagery does not strike me as pornographic for a number of reasons. The painterly medium lends the graphic tableau a level of "class" and legitimacy that few allegedly-pornographic works can muster, and the setting brings to mind (for me, at least) some old world boudoir that I could picture Marie Antoinette getting Rodgered in, and I have to admit that I find that appealing. Also, considering the obvious X-rated influence, it's interesting to note that the figures are those of ordinary people, and not the beefed-up-by-silicone and fire-hose-bedicked replicants that populate the majority of adult entertainment, and their simple commonness makes them quite charming. So, let's move on to the real issue at hand, namely the Johnson and the 'Giney.
Human genitalia depicted in the act that it was intended for is seldom seen from this angle in highbrow paintings, and while the anatomical details leave nothing to the imagination there is no display of the effluvium that accompanies the deployment of one's naughty bits (although the guy's nuts do look a bit greasy), or the cooking oil that porn ingénues liberally apply to their havens in order to simulate the visible signs of female arousal. And while the guy's squashing of his stuff (an action that inflates his unit via a technique familiar to anyone who's seen a Ron Jeremy vehicle in the past ten years) draws your attention to its turgid veininess, that's merely a component to the connection about to be made. If you are a guy who has ever been fortunate enough to have a woman share her body with you, especially with absolute certainty that there is no chance of either unwanted pregnancy or STD's, nothing feels better than your man root happily ensconced within the lady's Good Place, and with that knowledge in mind you can relate to the dude in the painting. The guy is straining to get inside his obviously willing companion and feel her moist, enveloping heat, and she's applying just enough pull to herself to open up and accommodate that friendly member, a subtle gesture made plain by our gaze being directed with the visual aid of her lace-covered digits. The glimpse that we are afforded of her pink taste treat only gives us enough to register it as the welcome and familiar source of all things wondrous, not the sometimes painfully splayed luncheon meat vista found in most one-handed amusement mags/videos, a sight that turns the divine vulgar.
And speaking of divine, the contours of the woman's body have just the right gravity and roundness, without the cartoonish exaggeration of the rank-and-file stroke-mag diva. Of particular interest is her pubic mound, delineated in such a way as to simultaneously register the solid structure of her pelvic bone and the softness of the tantalizing flesh surrounding it. When people are fucking — and I mean FUCKING, that animal communication between two physical beings that completely erodes rational thought — there's an immediate urgency that cancels out everything else around you, and that feeling is conveyed here with a subtlety that belies its flash of pink 'n' pecker. These two are caught up in the primal heat of the moment, and, frankly, I like seeing that in a contemporary painting rather than some hoary old example from a coffee table compendium of erotic art. Currin's "Rotterdam" very much places me in the "now" of its visual tale and moves me with its sensuousness. It certainly beats the hell out of much of the art that I saw during my school days. If only I could have walked into a gallery and seen the excellence of Gustave Courbet's "Origine du Monde."
"Origine du Monde" ("The Origin of the World", 1866)
NOTE: this is the whole painting, not just a detail. Not only can I totally get with the subject, but I also love the technique. Painting realistic-looking hair is a bitch and a half, and I'll be dipped in dog shit if that bush doesn't look just like the real thing. Hooray for art!!!
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
HEY, JOE: R.I.P. PETER BOYLE, 1935-2006
And so yet another of my favorite actors goes tits up, this time Peter Boyle.
Immortalized for his marvelously ludicrous portrayal of the zipper-necked monster in Mel Brooks' classic YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN (1974),
and better known to today's audiences for his hilarious turn as the irrascible Ray Barone on "Everybody Loves Raymond" (1996-2005),
Boyle brought a palpable humanity to his characters, even the most seemingly unloveable of anti-social bastards. That is, except for the motherfucking headcase title character in JOE (1970), which is hands down my favorite of Boyle's performances.
Boyle played Joe Curran, an outrageous, psychotic racist who was the antithesis of the counter-culture ideal brought ot terrifying life, and if you have not seen JOE, I cannot recommend it highly enough. In fact, rather than go off on one of my own patented rants on the subject, here's an excerpt from TIME magazine's review of the film from way back in 1970, and it sums up the story quite succinctly:
JONAH IN A HARDHAT
By Mark Goodman
Jul. 27, 1970
"The niggers," sneers Joe Curran. His beer belly enfolds the bar, and his close-set black eyes burn bright with contempt. "The niggers are getting all the money. So why work? Welfare! They even give them free rubbers . . . You think they use them? Hell, no. They sell them and use the money for booze. All them social workers are nigger lovers. And the white kids, they're acting like niggers. They got no respect for the President of the United States. A few heads get bashed and the liberals behave like Eleanor Roosevelt got raped. The liberals. Forty-two per cent of the liberals are queer—and that's a fact. Some Wallace people took a poll."
Joe Curran is the ultimate hardhat: outraged, terrified, violent and more than a little envious, lashing out blindly at threatening forces that he only dimly comprehends. His furrowed brow puckers when he hears his son has bought a motorcycle; his jowls tremble with rage when his wife breaks the news that a "colored" family has moved into his lily-white Queens neighborhood. His basement is formidably stocked with World War II weaponry. His hatred is so raw, his ideas so primitive and naive, that he often radiates a genuinely amusing innocence. For all its funny moments, however, Joe is anything but comedy. It is a film of Freudian anguish, biblical savagery and immense social and cinematic importance.
Fear and Frustration. Bill Compton (Dennis Patrick) is a $60,000-a-year Manhattan advertising executive whose young daughter (Susan Sarandon) has run off to live with an East Village junkie. She is not there when her father goes to her apartment, but he gets into an argument with her boy friend and inadvertently beats him to death. He staggers into a local bar where Joe (Peter Boyle), a $160-a-week welder, is holding forth. When Joe finally screams, "I'd like to kill one of them!", Compton looks up and whispers, "I just did." Joe later realizes that Compton was serious. He looks him up—not to blackmail him but to idolize him. "There's plenty of people," says Joe, "who would make you a hero."
Joe becomes Compton's Jonah. They form a curious but substantial relationship, a fraternity based on fear and frustration. Joe takes Compton to a bowling alley, and Compton shows Joe the fashionable Ginger Man, passing Joe off as a top-drawer adman. Slowly, Compton's harmless, homogenized ideas and civilized manners give way before the barbaric force of Joe's fury. "Sometimes when I'm with Joe," Compton tells his wife, "I feel almost as if I'd performed a humanitarian act."
Together they comb the East Village for Compton's daughter and end up wallowing in a smoky pad with a group of hippies. Joe looks at the welter of nude flesh in wonder. "This is an orgy, ain't it?" he asks (pronouncing "orgy" with a hard g). But the kids taunt them mercilessly, steal their wallets and take off for a commune. Joe and Bill track down the youngsters in a closing scene of such horror that Joe must surely rank in impact with BONNIE AND CLYDE.
And now, back to the Vault: Joe Curran is in many ways the true ancestor to Archie Bunker, only completely devoid of Archie's good qualities, and that's why Joe Curran fascinates me. He's Archie Bunker if Archie stepped over the line into outright madness, and he's a powerful "Fuck You!!!" to the hippie era, a statement that at the time was ballsy as hell. And the ending of that film will hit you like a brick right in the teeth, so see it already.
Goodbye, Peter. I'm gonna mis ya. Or as Frank Barone would say, "HOLY CRAP!!!"
Immortalized for his marvelously ludicrous portrayal of the zipper-necked monster in Mel Brooks' classic YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN (1974),
and better known to today's audiences for his hilarious turn as the irrascible Ray Barone on "Everybody Loves Raymond" (1996-2005),
Boyle brought a palpable humanity to his characters, even the most seemingly unloveable of anti-social bastards. That is, except for the motherfucking headcase title character in JOE (1970), which is hands down my favorite of Boyle's performances.
Boyle played Joe Curran, an outrageous, psychotic racist who was the antithesis of the counter-culture ideal brought ot terrifying life, and if you have not seen JOE, I cannot recommend it highly enough. In fact, rather than go off on one of my own patented rants on the subject, here's an excerpt from TIME magazine's review of the film from way back in 1970, and it sums up the story quite succinctly:
JONAH IN A HARDHAT
By Mark Goodman
Jul. 27, 1970
"The niggers," sneers Joe Curran. His beer belly enfolds the bar, and his close-set black eyes burn bright with contempt. "The niggers are getting all the money. So why work? Welfare! They even give them free rubbers . . . You think they use them? Hell, no. They sell them and use the money for booze. All them social workers are nigger lovers. And the white kids, they're acting like niggers. They got no respect for the President of the United States. A few heads get bashed and the liberals behave like Eleanor Roosevelt got raped. The liberals. Forty-two per cent of the liberals are queer—and that's a fact. Some Wallace people took a poll."
Joe Curran is the ultimate hardhat: outraged, terrified, violent and more than a little envious, lashing out blindly at threatening forces that he only dimly comprehends. His furrowed brow puckers when he hears his son has bought a motorcycle; his jowls tremble with rage when his wife breaks the news that a "colored" family has moved into his lily-white Queens neighborhood. His basement is formidably stocked with World War II weaponry. His hatred is so raw, his ideas so primitive and naive, that he often radiates a genuinely amusing innocence. For all its funny moments, however, Joe is anything but comedy. It is a film of Freudian anguish, biblical savagery and immense social and cinematic importance.
Fear and Frustration. Bill Compton (Dennis Patrick) is a $60,000-a-year Manhattan advertising executive whose young daughter (Susan Sarandon) has run off to live with an East Village junkie. She is not there when her father goes to her apartment, but he gets into an argument with her boy friend and inadvertently beats him to death. He staggers into a local bar where Joe (Peter Boyle), a $160-a-week welder, is holding forth. When Joe finally screams, "I'd like to kill one of them!", Compton looks up and whispers, "I just did." Joe later realizes that Compton was serious. He looks him up—not to blackmail him but to idolize him. "There's plenty of people," says Joe, "who would make you a hero."
Joe becomes Compton's Jonah. They form a curious but substantial relationship, a fraternity based on fear and frustration. Joe takes Compton to a bowling alley, and Compton shows Joe the fashionable Ginger Man, passing Joe off as a top-drawer adman. Slowly, Compton's harmless, homogenized ideas and civilized manners give way before the barbaric force of Joe's fury. "Sometimes when I'm with Joe," Compton tells his wife, "I feel almost as if I'd performed a humanitarian act."
Together they comb the East Village for Compton's daughter and end up wallowing in a smoky pad with a group of hippies. Joe looks at the welter of nude flesh in wonder. "This is an orgy, ain't it?" he asks (pronouncing "orgy" with a hard g). But the kids taunt them mercilessly, steal their wallets and take off for a commune. Joe and Bill track down the youngsters in a closing scene of such horror that Joe must surely rank in impact with BONNIE AND CLYDE.
And now, back to the Vault: Joe Curran is in many ways the true ancestor to Archie Bunker, only completely devoid of Archie's good qualities, and that's why Joe Curran fascinates me. He's Archie Bunker if Archie stepped over the line into outright madness, and he's a powerful "Fuck You!!!" to the hippie era, a statement that at the time was ballsy as hell. And the ending of that film will hit you like a brick right in the teeth, so see it already.
Goodbye, Peter. I'm gonna mis ya. Or as Frank Barone would say, "HOLY CRAP!!!"
R.I.P. MARTIN NODELL, CREATOR OF THE GREEN LANTERN
Yet another of the "Golden Age" cartoonists whose creations helped build the comic book industry as we know it, the creator of the original Green Lantern, has died. I met Martin Nodell when he visited DC Comics back in 1999, and he was one hell of a guy, even being kind enough to sign his section in my copy of "The Great Comic Book Heroes," a book that I have cherished since I was seven years old, a tome that is more responsible than any other influence for my interest in the history of comics.
Yeah, I know, I'm a geek.
So here's Nodell's obit from the Associated Press, and for the layman, the original Green Lantern is not the one you're familiar with; the later, better-known GL is a space hero, while the original was more of a traditional "mystery man" with a magic ring. And don't get me started on the original's major weakness, namely wood. Yes, you read that right.
MIAMI, Florida (AP) -- Martin Nodell, the creator of Green Lantern, the comic book superhero who uses his magical ring to help him fight crime, has died. He was 91.
Nodell died at a nursing home in Muskego, Wisconsin, on Saturday of natural causes, his son Spencer Nodell told The Associated Press on Tuesday. He previously lived in West Palm Beach.
Nodell was looking for a new idea for a comic book in 1940 when he was waiting for a New York subway and saw a train operator waving a lantern displaying a green light, said Maggie Thompson, senior editor of Comics Buyer's Guide.
Nodell imagined a young engineer, Alan Scott, a train crash survivor who discovers in the debris an ancient lantern forged from a green meteor. Scott constructs a ring from the lamp that gives him super powers, and becomes a crime fighter.
Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern. From his first appearance, ALL AMERICAN COMICS #16 (1940)
He brought his drawings and story lines to All-American Publications, which later became a part of National Periodical Publications, the company that was to become DC Comics, Thompson said. (DC Comics is a unit of Time Warner, as is CNN.)
The first Green Lantern appearance came in July 1940, an eight-page story in a comic book also featuring other characters. The character then got his own series, and Nodell drew it until 1947 under the name Mart Dellon.
After its cancellation in 1949, the series was reborn in 1959 with a revised story line, and it has been revived several times.
Meanwhile, Nodell left the comics field for an advertising career. In the 1960s, he was on a design team that helped develop the Pillsbury Doughboy.
In later years, Nodell traveled the comic book convention circuit with his wife, Caroline, who died in 2004.
"There were myriad of fans who would come up to my dad and would say 'Green Lantern got me to read' or 'Green Lantern got me to do something in my life,' " Spencer Nodell said.
Nodell was born in Philadelphia and studied at art schools in Chicago and New York. Besides Spencer Nodell, survivors include another son, six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.
The Golden Age Green Lantern by Alex Ross
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
GIANT SIZE MANDINGO: FRO-HEAD BECOMES SHELL-HEAD
I have a friend who is the mistress of finding online personality quizzes that go all over the map, and the latest one she discovered tells you which famous superhero you'd be depending on your answers. Intrigued, I went to http://www.thesuperheroquiz.com/ and after I took the test, I came up as Iron Man.
Fucking Iron Man?!? Sure the guy's been a cornerstone of the Marvel Universe since his first appearance back in March of 1963 (see above), even being a founding member of the Avengers (that's "Earth's Mightiest Heroes," not the oddball British secret agents), but he's also a major asshole. Tony Stark is a capitalist scumbag/billionaire industrialist whose primary thrust is munitions (sure, he comes up with a hover-Porsche or the occasional Quinjet, but he still makes most of his cash by engineering high-tech weaponry), a heart-breaking playboy (my fellow comics-geek Jared points out that while Bruce Wayne pretends to be a womanizer, Tony Stark has gotten more pussy than a litter box, thereby making Stark the real deal), and a bit of a domineering control freak, yet he manages to bend over and get willingly pooched by the government at the drop of a hat.
And while I have to give Stark props for his dozens of armors that can handle just about any imaginable contingency (my favorite being the "classic" version seen above), what kind of genius gets liquored-up, straps on what amounts to a tactical assault aircraft and goes flying about firing off repulsor rays and attempting super-feats? Unadulterated hubris, sez I. I've done my share of stupid shit while bombed, but I was never once tempted to pick up a McCullogh chainsaw and attempt to replicate my favorite HUSTLER centerspread as an ice sculpture after downing a tumbler of Maker's Mark. Stark's batttle with the bottle was indeed a compelling story arc, one of only two times in all my years of comics reading that I followed Iron Man's adventures religiously.
And while Stark may have conquered his alcoholism, he has had no such success at conquering his assholism; his actions in Marvel's current "event" series, CIVIL WAR, are nothing short of appalling as he reveals himself to be a thoughtless fascist who pisses all over civil rights, violates the Constitution, and sells his colleagues in the super-human community up the river to a maximum security prison in another dimension if they don't sign up with the government's superhero registration act. The oily, Svengali-like bastard even convinced perpetual innocent Peter Parker to out himself on live national televison as Spider-Man, for fuck's sake! Technically, that act of staggering stupidity falls squarely on Peter's shoulders for going along with it, but you know what I mean.
So the bottom line is: I have always considered Iron Man to be a douchebag, and I'm going to have to figure out where I went wrong to end up with him as my super-heroic avatar. I won't lose any sleep over it, but... Oh, and take the test for yourself and write in with your results. Hey, I'm a nosy motherfucker!
Fucking Iron Man?!? Sure the guy's been a cornerstone of the Marvel Universe since his first appearance back in March of 1963 (see above), even being a founding member of the Avengers (that's "Earth's Mightiest Heroes," not the oddball British secret agents), but he's also a major asshole. Tony Stark is a capitalist scumbag/billionaire industrialist whose primary thrust is munitions (sure, he comes up with a hover-Porsche or the occasional Quinjet, but he still makes most of his cash by engineering high-tech weaponry), a heart-breaking playboy (my fellow comics-geek Jared points out that while Bruce Wayne pretends to be a womanizer, Tony Stark has gotten more pussy than a litter box, thereby making Stark the real deal), and a bit of a domineering control freak, yet he manages to bend over and get willingly pooched by the government at the drop of a hat.
And while I have to give Stark props for his dozens of armors that can handle just about any imaginable contingency (my favorite being the "classic" version seen above), what kind of genius gets liquored-up, straps on what amounts to a tactical assault aircraft and goes flying about firing off repulsor rays and attempting super-feats? Unadulterated hubris, sez I. I've done my share of stupid shit while bombed, but I was never once tempted to pick up a McCullogh chainsaw and attempt to replicate my favorite HUSTLER centerspread as an ice sculpture after downing a tumbler of Maker's Mark. Stark's batttle with the bottle was indeed a compelling story arc, one of only two times in all my years of comics reading that I followed Iron Man's adventures religiously.
And while Stark may have conquered his alcoholism, he has had no such success at conquering his assholism; his actions in Marvel's current "event" series, CIVIL WAR, are nothing short of appalling as he reveals himself to be a thoughtless fascist who pisses all over civil rights, violates the Constitution, and sells his colleagues in the super-human community up the river to a maximum security prison in another dimension if they don't sign up with the government's superhero registration act. The oily, Svengali-like bastard even convinced perpetual innocent Peter Parker to out himself on live national televison as Spider-Man, for fuck's sake! Technically, that act of staggering stupidity falls squarely on Peter's shoulders for going along with it, but you know what I mean.
So the bottom line is: I have always considered Iron Man to be a douchebag, and I'm going to have to figure out where I went wrong to end up with him as my super-heroic avatar. I won't lose any sleep over it, but... Oh, and take the test for yourself and write in with your results. Hey, I'm a nosy motherfucker!
Monday, December 11, 2006
SEASON OF DREAD: A BRIGHT SPOT
So I get home after a miserable, boring work day that dragged along at a sub-glacial pace and find a package outside my door. This was puzzling because it was not only unexpected, but it arrived on a Sunday...
I took it inside, read the shipping label and found no clue as to who sent it, so I carefully opened it and found the new hardcover collection "I Yam What I Yam," a handsome edition of the THIMBLE THEATER story arc that gave the world Popeye, the first of six volumes collecting this marvelously insane material.
Fucking POPEYE, the first American superhero, and one of my all-time favorite characters in any medium. I love him without reservation, and relate to his personal philosophy on a deep level. I mean, what could be a more ahead-of-its-time existential statement than Popeye's oft-stated, "I yam what I yam and tha's all I yam?" No attempt at over-analyzed explanation, Popeye just IS, and that's all there is to it, and if you don't like it, then that's too fuckin' bad. If all you know of the sailor is his animated oeuvre, you have to read creator E.C. Segar's hilarious and frequently sick comics about Popeye to truly understand him; despite his gruff demeanor, Popeye is a simple, decent soul who is in many ways the perfect warrior as put forth in the code of Bushido, yet informal and earthy to perhaps an absurd degree. And while the comic strips flesh out this English-mangling nautical oddity, some of the lesser known lyrics to his timeless cartoon theme song spell him out in no uncertain terms, so for the benefit of those not in the know, here's the whole thing:
I'm Popeye, the Sailor Man
I'm Popeye, the Sailor Man
I'm strong ta the finish
'Cuz I eats me spinach
I'm Popeye, the Sailor Man
I'm one tough gazookus what hates all palookas
What ain't on the up and square
I biffs 'em an' boffs 'em, an' always out-roughs 'em
An' none of 'em gets nowhere
If anyone dasses ta risk me fisk, it's "Boff!," an' it's "Wham!," unnerstan'?
So keep good behavor, tha's yer one lifesaver
With Popeye, the Sailor Man
In short, he's a good egg who kicks the motherfucking shit out sonsabitches what deserves it, and he urges kids to be good. Now, THAT'S a hero I can get with!
So, to the glorious mermaid who totally flummoxed me with such a treasure, I extend my heartiest of "thank yous," and when next I see you, expect a very warm welcome indeed. And Popeye's dad, the esteemed Poopdeck Pappy, also dug mermaids — to the point of abandoning his son so he could live on a deserted island with six (!!!) of them — so we're on the same page.
I took it inside, read the shipping label and found no clue as to who sent it, so I carefully opened it and found the new hardcover collection "I Yam What I Yam," a handsome edition of the THIMBLE THEATER story arc that gave the world Popeye, the first of six volumes collecting this marvelously insane material.
Fucking POPEYE, the first American superhero, and one of my all-time favorite characters in any medium. I love him without reservation, and relate to his personal philosophy on a deep level. I mean, what could be a more ahead-of-its-time existential statement than Popeye's oft-stated, "I yam what I yam and tha's all I yam?" No attempt at over-analyzed explanation, Popeye just IS, and that's all there is to it, and if you don't like it, then that's too fuckin' bad. If all you know of the sailor is his animated oeuvre, you have to read creator E.C. Segar's hilarious and frequently sick comics about Popeye to truly understand him; despite his gruff demeanor, Popeye is a simple, decent soul who is in many ways the perfect warrior as put forth in the code of Bushido, yet informal and earthy to perhaps an absurd degree. And while the comic strips flesh out this English-mangling nautical oddity, some of the lesser known lyrics to his timeless cartoon theme song spell him out in no uncertain terms, so for the benefit of those not in the know, here's the whole thing:
I'm Popeye, the Sailor Man
I'm Popeye, the Sailor Man
I'm strong ta the finish
'Cuz I eats me spinach
I'm Popeye, the Sailor Man
I'm one tough gazookus what hates all palookas
What ain't on the up and square
I biffs 'em an' boffs 'em, an' always out-roughs 'em
An' none of 'em gets nowhere
If anyone dasses ta risk me fisk, it's "Boff!," an' it's "Wham!," unnerstan'?
So keep good behavor, tha's yer one lifesaver
With Popeye, the Sailor Man
In short, he's a good egg who kicks the motherfucking shit out sonsabitches what deserves it, and he urges kids to be good. Now, THAT'S a hero I can get with!
So, to the glorious mermaid who totally flummoxed me with such a treasure, I extend my heartiest of "thank yous," and when next I see you, expect a very warm welcome indeed. And Popeye's dad, the esteemed Poopdeck Pappy, also dug mermaids — to the point of abandoning his son so he could live on a deserted island with six (!!!) of them — so we're on the same page.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
SEASON OF DREAD: IT BEGINS IN EARNEST
This day at the barbecue joint is moving slower than a tortoise on sedatives, and just when I thought things couldn't get worse, my most hated of annual irritations reared its ugly head.
It's no secret that the Christmas season and its relentless commercialism and fascistic enforcement of phony happiness drives me absolutely fucking batshit, and it's also no secret that one of the things I hate with a fervency usually reserved for white supremacists, fag bashers, child molesters, and Tim Burton is motherfucking Christmas music. During the season it is simply every-goddamned-where, even more insidiously pervasive than the worst of disco during its heyday — yes, even worse then "Born To Be Alive" — and each year when I can finally take no more of it I shell out a couple of bucks for those soft foam earplugs by way of self defense.
Keeping that in mind, be aware that I loathe the majority of the music foisted upon listeners at my job, much of it falling into a category that I have pejoratively dubbed "go-to-sleep" music; there's a lot of that "emo" pussiness, bland, nameless reggae, the Dave Matthews band (who, in a sane society, would have been put to death for the crime of being boring years ago), occasional show tunes (??? It's a barbecue joint, for fuck's sake!!!), some of the worst fake, modern white boy blues that it has ever been my displeasure to endure, and so many overplayings of Led Zepplin's "Houses of the Holy" that I have pretty much been turned against that album for the rest of my life. But the chief offender, which has thankfully fallen off a bit, is the horrendous modern country music performed by a procession of trust fund douchebags whose only claim to the suffering inherent in the best of country music (mostly stuff recorded prior to 1975) is a possibly too-steep price tag on a brand new Stetson cowboy fedora, something none of them have earned the right to wear, what with never having been anywhere near a horse, cattle, or any job more rugged than serving up Slurpees at the local 7/11.
So imagine my chagrin when the stereo shook me out of my focus on my present tasks by vomiting forth an album that gene-splices saccharine yuletide standards with whiny, over-slick modern country music. I swear to the gods that I contemplated committing seppuku with a plastic picnic knife when I heard the hideous countrified version of the accursed "Frosty the Snowman," perhaps my all-time least favorite Christmas tune.
The worst of it will be over in sixteen days, so I must summon up the power of my chi and my totems, the bear and the tiger, and somehow survive the aural onslaught. Repeated helpings of my own homemade "Merry Fucking Christmas" CD will help somewhat by injecting much needed Satanic metal, punk rock, and general sacreligious offensiveness into the ether, negating in a small way some of the treacle that sticks to Scrooges like me in the way that a harshly-hacked bolus of phlegm or a nasty wad of cum fired from close range unwantedly clings to one's hair.
It's no secret that the Christmas season and its relentless commercialism and fascistic enforcement of phony happiness drives me absolutely fucking batshit, and it's also no secret that one of the things I hate with a fervency usually reserved for white supremacists, fag bashers, child molesters, and Tim Burton is motherfucking Christmas music. During the season it is simply every-goddamned-where, even more insidiously pervasive than the worst of disco during its heyday — yes, even worse then "Born To Be Alive" — and each year when I can finally take no more of it I shell out a couple of bucks for those soft foam earplugs by way of self defense.
Keeping that in mind, be aware that I loathe the majority of the music foisted upon listeners at my job, much of it falling into a category that I have pejoratively dubbed "go-to-sleep" music; there's a lot of that "emo" pussiness, bland, nameless reggae, the Dave Matthews band (who, in a sane society, would have been put to death for the crime of being boring years ago), occasional show tunes (??? It's a barbecue joint, for fuck's sake!!!), some of the worst fake, modern white boy blues that it has ever been my displeasure to endure, and so many overplayings of Led Zepplin's "Houses of the Holy" that I have pretty much been turned against that album for the rest of my life. But the chief offender, which has thankfully fallen off a bit, is the horrendous modern country music performed by a procession of trust fund douchebags whose only claim to the suffering inherent in the best of country music (mostly stuff recorded prior to 1975) is a possibly too-steep price tag on a brand new Stetson cowboy fedora, something none of them have earned the right to wear, what with never having been anywhere near a horse, cattle, or any job more rugged than serving up Slurpees at the local 7/11.
So imagine my chagrin when the stereo shook me out of my focus on my present tasks by vomiting forth an album that gene-splices saccharine yuletide standards with whiny, over-slick modern country music. I swear to the gods that I contemplated committing seppuku with a plastic picnic knife when I heard the hideous countrified version of the accursed "Frosty the Snowman," perhaps my all-time least favorite Christmas tune.
The worst of it will be over in sixteen days, so I must summon up the power of my chi and my totems, the bear and the tiger, and somehow survive the aural onslaught. Repeated helpings of my own homemade "Merry Fucking Christmas" CD will help somewhat by injecting much needed Satanic metal, punk rock, and general sacreligious offensiveness into the ether, negating in a small way some of the treacle that sticks to Scrooges like me in the way that a harshly-hacked bolus of phlegm or a nasty wad of cum fired from close range unwantedly clings to one's hair.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
A TIME FOR MODESTY
The 1960s. A time of great social change that affected all aspects of the international human experience and a decade in which the British wielded considerable impact upon the globe’s pop culture; music, film, television, fashion and literature all felt the influence of the British sensibility and an America that simmered with ready-to-boil civil/political/sexual/hallucinogenic madness fell victim to the spell of “Cool Britannia.” The post-Camelot Yoo Ess Uv Ay welcomed the Beatles, 007, ultra-foppish outfits that made the wearer seem either insane of quaintly fey, THE AVENGERS and a host of other notable lime-flavored diversions, but oddly one of the major groundbreakers of UK entertainment never really made its presence known over here. That MIA bit of fun was the daily comic strip MODESTY BLAISE, and considering its relatively adult content it’s really no surprise that it would never have flown in stateside papers at the time. And that, if you ask me, is a goddamned shame.
When it comes to tough and glamorous female characters of UK origin the one that immediately springs to mind for most Americans of a certain age is Emma Peel, the second and unarguably most popular partner of dapper, bowler-chapeuxed secret agent John Steed for two years on the cult classic TV series THE AVENGERS. Peel was smart, classy, dead sexy in a catsuit, resourceful and tougher than any man in the room and capable of handing the most daunting opponent with her highly stylized martial arts moves. Sounds cool, no? Well lemme tell ya, brother, next to Modesty Blaise Emma Peel has all the resonance and interest of a slowly screeching “squeaker” fart that fizzles out with a pitiful whistle from betwixt the vast butt cheeks of popular culture. I don’t mean to disrespect Emma but Modesty is the real deal (and besides, I like Cathy Gale better as Steed’s partner anyway). But I digress…The MODESTY BLAISE comic strip, written and created by Peter O’Donnell and lavishly illustrated by Jim Holdaway, debuted in the pages of Britain’s The Evening Standard on May 13th, 1963 and introduced readers to the globe-hopping exploits of the stunning Modesty Blaise and her ultra-badass of a right hand man Willie Garvin, a pair of retired criminals with hearts of gold who once ran a crime syndicate called the Network. Having accrued considerable fortunes and desiring lives that didn’t entail potentially getting their asses shot off on a daily basis, the two take up well-heeled lives of leisure but it seems that no matter where they go the fates conspire to involve them in all manner of hard-hitting adventure and intrigue. Keen-minded highly trained strategists, fiercely loyal friends to those in need and just plain downright deadly, Modesty and Willie are a match for anyone misguided enough to rouse their ire.
Modesty’s origin is fraught with the sort of horrifying crap that either forges tungsten-like fortitude or destroys a person utterly, but even as an amnesiac child our heroine was a born survivor, enduring nomadic homelessness ranging from her escape from a prison camp in Greece during the waning days of WWII through years of wandering in the Middle East (aspects of which “influenced” Chris Claremont’s origin for Storm of the X-Men). The girl, whose name was a casualty of severe trauma, fell in with an old man named Lob, a professor from Bucharest, after she rescued him from an assailant in a refugee camp when but a waif of perhaps twelve years of age. Under his guidance the girl absorbed knowledge like a sponge, learned several languages, honed her survival skills and gained the nickname “Modesty” upon entering puberty, and to that she added the surname “Blaise,” garnered from the tutor of Merlin the sorcerer. During her late adolescence, Lob died and Modesty ended up in Tangiers where she began her criminal endeavors — which strictly abhorred drugs and vice — eventually happening upon rough-and-tumble diamond in the rough Willie Garvin who was earning a questionable living handing out Muay Thai ass-whuppings in the kickboxing ring in Saigon. Recognizing a potential asset to her organization, Modesty bought Willie out of jail with no strings attached and from that transaction was born one of the most unique relationships in adventure fiction. Modesty and Willie are soul mates and a perfect match in every way, as intimate as two kindred spirits can be and utterly willing to die for each other without a moment's hesitation, but, intriguingly, they are not lovers.
Their lack of a sexual relationship serves to magnify the intensity of their friendship, an unbreakable and deep connection that thrives and grows despite the presence of several significant romantic involvements for both characters, and their bond is fascinating to read about.With all of this information, you are now ready to dive headfirst into Modesty’s harrowing world and I promise that you will not be bored. You have the choice of availing yourself to the comics or the even better series of novels penned by series creator O’Donnell, and you can’t go wrong with either incarnation.
Titan Books is currently collecting the strip in chronological order in an ongoing series of handsome trade paperbacks and despite some reproduction glitches inherent to the inevitable ageing of the source film, these books are exactly what your collection needs to give it a touch of class. The stories are entertaining as hell and are real nail-biters in many cases, especially the perverse “Uncle Happy” in the second collection and volume three’s “Top Traitor,” a tale in which Modesty’s high-ranking secret service pal Sir Gerald Tarrant goes missing and is assumed to be a mole for enemy interests. And as if first class entertainment weren’t good enough, the reprint volumes also provide fascinating articles on the development and history of the series, plus riveting interviews and reminiscences from the strip’s creator.
There are thirty-eight years and ninety-five serials to wade through, all written by O’Donnell and drawn by several artists (the John Burns run is stunning and inexplicably underrated), so Titan will be blessing us with volumes of this classic series for quite some time provided the current books do well, and I promise you that I’ll be on board for the long haul. Search all you want, but it is simply impossible to find a more cracking good adventure strip from the past fifty years than MODESTY BLAISE. If you haven’t experienced this phenomenon, then now is the time for Modesty. And you can trust your Bunche on that one, muthafukkas!
A couple of additional short notes:
1. In 1994 DC Comics issued a graphic novel adaptation of the first Modesty Blaise novel (entitled “Modesty Blaise”) drawn by comics legend Dick Giordano; it’s a perfect introduction to the character for those who don’t necessarily cotton to the daily newspaper strip format of the classic run and can be obtained with a little comic shop or internet sleuthing.
2. There have been two theatrical features based on Modesty Blaise and one 1982 TV movie; the 1966 Joseph Losey campfest MODESTY BLAISE is available on DVD and majorly sucks sweaty ass, so I heartily advise you to spurn it like you would spurn a rabid dog (Peter O’Donnell has been quoted as saying of the film “It makes my nose bleed just to think of it”). I have not seen the TV version but available reports are not favorable, and the 2003 MY NAME IS MODESTY: A MODESTY BLAISE ADVENTURE deals with the character’s origin — minus Willie since he was not a part of the years chronicled in this story, and that’s a big detriment to the whole feel of the series — and is pretty decent despite its slow pace and seventy-eight minute running time.
3. Some of the particulars of Chris Claremont’s origin for Storm in UNCANNY X-MEN # 103 are clearly “influenced” by the early years of Modesty Blaise; read that Marvel oldie and then read “In the Beginning” which is found in the tail end of the first Titan reprint volume and judge for yourself.
4. Perhaps the best-known “homage” to Modesty Blaise is Renny Harlin’s unjustly maligned 1996 thriller THE LONG KISS GOODNIGHT, which featured Geena Davis as an amnesiac housewife whose true self is revealed in an action film fan’s wet dream. Read some of the O’Donnell stuff and then see this film; you will be amazed by the similarities.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
BACK IN BLACK: THE RETURN OF GIANT-SIZE MANDINGO
A while back, I used to write a column for the comics website the Pulse entitled GIANT-SIZE MANDINGO, a play on the unbelieveable but true Marvel comic book title from the seventies, GIANT-SIZE MAN-THING (I swear to God!),
and the most offensive mainstream Hollywood film ever released, MANDINGO(1975), one of my all-time favorites.
In that column I billed myself as "the High-Yella Heirophant of All Things Heroic," and pontificated upon all manner of four color entertainment, and whatever Hollywood monstrosities caught my attention. It was fun, and now I'm resurrecting the column on this here blog with some new material, and a rerun or two from the original run, so get ready for some fun!
and the most offensive mainstream Hollywood film ever released, MANDINGO(1975), one of my all-time favorites.
In that column I billed myself as "the High-Yella Heirophant of All Things Heroic," and pontificated upon all manner of four color entertainment, and whatever Hollywood monstrosities caught my attention. It was fun, and now I'm resurrecting the column on this here blog with some new material, and a rerun or two from the original run, so get ready for some fun!
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