From Leonard Nimoy's poetry collection Warmed by Love,
published by Blue Mountain Press in 1983.
Apologies for slacking, but here we are already six days into National Poetry Month 2020 and I have yet to post anything. Fortunately, this error is easily rectified by digging deep into my book shelf for a poem by recently departed Star Trek actor-director-poet Leonard Nimoy.
"Old Fashioned Spaceman" is fairly representative of the collection as a whole: Nimoy's style is free form, devoid of traditional punctuation, with occasional rhyme, and frequently self-referential. There are few writer's who can use their own careers, especially an iconic character initially brought to life on a television screen, as a means of providing cultural allusion ("logic"). As we know, though, Leonard "Mr. Spock" Nimoy was not your normal cat.
The typography and publishing elements in this collection (gold hues, New Times-Roman font, bright, chalky strokes of color) strongly suggest the Vintage Hallmark poetry editions sold at the greeting card shops of my youth. These volumes, and my weekend evenings watching Star Trek, represent the breadth and depth of my youthful poetic experience. The warm traditional presentation (the very pleasant and joyful headshot of Mr. Nimoy on the cover for example) occasionally comes into contrast with the cold (logical?) tone established in the lines of poetry. One could interpret this contradiction and of publishing style and content to reinforce the conflict Nimoy himself once felt about his association with the character.
My hard cover of Warmed By Love is a gift from many star-dates ago, so I am unsure whether it is still in print. If you do happen across it, I recommend picking it up as it is very readable, and worthy of some consideration beyond the kitsch value. Of course my own appreciation of Mr. Nimoy's poetry may be because I, too, often feel like an "old fashioned spaceman."
From "I" written by Zach Shields and Todd Casey with artwork by Christian Dibari and Mark Spicer.
Not surprisingly, the cover
by Fiona Staples is one
of the artistic high points.
Four Decembers ago, following a media-fueled folk horror-frenzy, this slender, softcover volume found its way to my comic book shelf. Released in concert with the feature length movie Krampus (2015), Legendary Publishing's Krampus: The Shadow of Saint Nicholas shares many of the same qualities that made the film entertaining. This graphic novel features stories crafted with the film's writer/director Michael Dougherty credit with a "Stories by" credit. While Krampus the movie focuses on a single family's experience with the demon and his minions, The Shadow of St. Nicholas employs an anthology approach to broadened the primary antagonist's impact on a wider range of unrelated characters.
As with other Legendary Pictures/Publishing tie-ins for genre films (see Godzilla: Awakening (2014) and Pacific Rim: Tales from Year Zero (2013)), the formula remains the same here: include the film's original creative talent, in this case Dougherty, to develop ancillary stories that reflect signature elements of the overall narrative of the film. While thematically related to the movie, having seen the movie prior is not necessarily key to its enjoyment.
Krampus' minions are back
in "II" with art by Maan House
and Guy Major.
Given the Krampus character and perhaps Dougherty's affinity for anthology sub-genre, The Shadow of Christmas is successful in accomplishing what the filmmaker says the intention is behind this project in the collection's introduction, "to deepen your [the reader's] love of the character [Krampus]..." Visually, the artist team keeps the best visual component of the movie, the well-realized practical creature designs, in the graphic novel. Each of the four stories, titled as Roman numerals I through IV, are all written by Zach Shields and Todd Casey (Laura Shields is also a credited co-writer on "II"). Each story is grounded in a modern setting familiar to American readers that creates the opportunity for a hint of the "ancient in a modern world" dynamic that worked so well in the movie.
Splash page of Krampus from
"III" by Michael Montenat
and Mike Spicer.
The most polished of the four stories is the first and if each of the four were to be thought of as pitches for a potential Krampus sequel, "I" also makes the most sense. Simply put, "I" is a tale of redemption. A "bad" department store Santa seeks validation by combating the forces of Krampus to protect others who are more worthy than he to live on. The story is a reminiscent of other Twilight Zone-style stories and while offering no real narrative surprises, the professional execution makes for an enjoyable reading experience.
Much of your appreciation if this graphic novel as a whole will depend on your enjoyment of the burgeoning Krampus mythos in modern mainstream media. If, like me, you dig contemporary iterations of archaic folklore, The Spirit of Saint Nicholas is worth seeking out. As a fan of the movie Krampus, recommending this companion piece is easy. The inherent re-readability of a quality anthology makes the $14.99 cover price well worthwhile.
They came to the humble bushes first, the twitching, quivering leaves
tumbling to the sand as they approached. Then came the straw-like mellowbane,
and growing amongst them grass of a very different kind--sturdy reed-thick
grass, each blade tipped with a black, bean-shaped nodule: rustling death rattle, astir
in the sunset wind. (Walkabout, page 56.)
Nearly eleven years ago now, I made the move from teaching eighth grade in the middle school down (physically to a lower floor) to the high school. Currently, I teach five sections of eleventh grade English, and having concluded all of my assigned summer reading books, am on to other reading. Last week I once again came across a title I'd salvaged from the school's discard pile many moons ago, Walkabout (1959) by James Vance Marshall. My recovered copy is in near pristine condition, having not (if ever) been read by students, it's internal coding (86-1) revealing that the school acquired the book in 1986.
My familiarity with the novel comes from prior numerous viewings of the 1971 film adaptation by the same name directed by Nicolas Roeg that it eventually spawned. The movie version of Walkabout has since become a personal favorite that I enjoy watching annually. Given the film's mature subtext, subtle nudity, and themes, I was very surprised to find it in a middle school book room. With the political climate in some schools, I would be surprised to find it in the stacks of more conservative high school libraries, let alone on some approved reading list
Marshall's Walkabout is much more of a traditional young adult survival novel than the film, though a number of the coming-of-age themes explored with greater depth in the film are present. The basic plot elements are the same: two children get lost in the Australian Outback and are helped by an Aborigine on his walkabout. The specifics, such as how the two find themselves in that predicament, as well as their nationalities, among other things, however, result in two very different narrative experiences. Just a few are considered in the quick table below:
The brief excerpt at the top of this post is illustrative of Marshall's vivid and poetic descriptions of the Australian outback; a necessity when the setting is itself a significant character. Though a survival story, the environment is presented less as overtly hostile and more as an aggressively nurturing co-facilitator of experience. Even once they are joined by the "bush boy," Peter and Mary embrace the beauty of their prison even as they search for a way home. The direction Walkabout's plot takes also marks it as an unusual reading choice for middle-schoolers. Unlike other adventure survival reads, The Cay by Theodore Taylor comes to mind, Marshall offers little clear resolution to the subtle internal turmoil between Mary and the boy; no satisfying bridge is built across the cultural divide. As an adult reader, however, one is likely more well-equipped by experience to see some connections being drawn.
The novel Walkabout by James Vance Marshall is a breezy read at a tightly written 158 pages. A descriptive writing style and carefully researched cultural information about the fascinating Aboriginal people make this an easy novel to recommend. I also highly recommend Nicolas Roeg's 1971 film of the same name for a very different, and decidedly more mature, exploration of some themes only touched upon in the book.
The Peking at the South Street Seaport in New York City. (6/19/16)
Friday evening, my wife and I watched In the Heart of the Sea (2015) directed by Ron Howard and based upon the (far superior) novel by Nathaniel Philbrick. Despite lacking the passion of the book, and including some very odd camera angles intended (I think) to suggest some sort of artistic vision, one thing the movie did do very well is to recreate the Essex, the whaling ship that serves as the initial setting. Similar to our shared earlier film experience with Peter Weir's excellent 2003 historical drama Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World, based on Dan O-Brien's novels, much of our viewing of the at-sea scenes were punctuated with comments such as "There is no way I could survive on a ship like that" or "I would definitely puke my brains out!"
It was during these scenes that I recalled we had indeed been on a boat not too dissimilar to that depicted in the movie... well, maybe not really, but it was an older vessel and we had toured it while it was moored to a pier. Last month while visiting my step-son in New York City, one of the historical sites we found ourselves wandering into (in addition to the National September 11 Memorial and Hamilton Grange) was the South Sea Seaport. While there, we took in the South Street Seaport Museum and one of its display, the Peking. Neither a whaling ship nor war ship, the Peking was "one of the famous 'Flying P Liners'... [e]mployed in the nitrate trade..." The vessel was "made famous by the Irving Johnson film Around Cape Horn which documented her 1929 passage around the southern tip of South America in hurricane conditions." As part of our admission to the museum we were given a fairly self-guided tour of the ship.
Just as with the two aforementioned movies, touring the Peking reminded me how extremely unlikely it would be that I could survive at sea with fifty other people during an extensive voyage. I am more than well-equipped, however to tour interesting museums which permit an up-close experience with real history, a quality the South Street Seaport Museum has plenty of.
Wild Strawberries (1957) is not nearly as "artsy-fartsy" or maudlin as this trailer makes it look... honest!
Each school year, despite the best efforts of our department leadership to clearly inform teachers which novels are assigned to be taught at which of the four grade levels (9 thru 12), invariably teachers will high-jack a text for use a different grade level. Whether out of a passion for a particular title or because they don't feel the obligation to research materials for a novel they have not previously worked with, this is an annual conscious choice on the part of some that results in a completely avoidable bone of contention. While this does create problems (beyond the need to find alternative resources, let's face it, the thematic content of some texts really is more accessible and meaningful to older more experienced students), there is also an opportunity created through this lack of etiquette: the potential for revealing for students the power of a re-visiting a text.
A favorite title from my
youth I look forward to
revisiting this summer.
This idea is even more relatable when considered in the context of movies, a fact I was once again reminded of while re-watching one yesterday. The opportunity to re-visit a text (whether traditional hard copy or film presentation) creates a situation that illustrates the difference between simply reading a book and really READING a book. As teachers and adults, we can appreciate finding new information each time we read a story or novel, or after re-watching a movie. High school students, however, often view the reading expedience as a chore which, once completed, is finished with little necessity to revisit it beyond identifying cited textual evidence for responding to an essay prompt.
VHS box for Federico
Fellini's La Strada (1954).
While an undergraduate English major wa-a-ay back in 1988, I took a film study course entitled "Fellini and Bergman." As a product of an urban Western New York public school system, I had zero familiarity with the idea of watching foreign movies other than those produced by Toho Studios and (badly) re-dubbed in English. A large part of the course requirement consisted of independently watching films outside of class. This task required going to the bowels of the campus library and viewing videotapes at a desk with large headphones on. It was there that I also gained a level of comfort reading subtitles--an underappreciated skill I continue to develop to this day. While at my local public library yesterday, I came across a DVD copy of one of the films I had seen in the library basement, Ingmar Bergman's Wild Strawberries (1954), a film I had last seen 26 years ago.
After finishing the movie this second time, many years later, the difference in the experience was clear. Eighteen year-old me dutifully viewed Bergman's meditation on aging and acceptance, coming to some basic conclusions based in great part on my professor's book explaining the movie's themes, structure and story. Yesterday, 47 year-old me experienced with greater depth (and a stronger personal connection) the philosophical themes such as the value of introspection and the transient nature of human existence. I am also fairly certain that 65 year-old me (fingers-crossed!) will draw even more from a future viewing experience.
Stories, poetry and novels are no different; all benefit from the occasional re-visit, especially after time and experience have filled in some cognitive and emotional gaps. A part of me looks forward to the realization that this year's new crop of budding scholars have somehow been fed a novel that I had intended to teach. Rather than cursing the previous ill-advised professional, I will take advantage of the opportunity and challenge of demonstrating the power of revisiting text. Beyond the additional structural and thematic low-hanging fruit ready to be dropped, I am confident a great connection between the student (reader) and content can be facilitated... and the real magic of literature validated!
Finding an action figure worthy of a spot on my desk is often a matter of six degrees of separation. Take "Eowyn with Sword Slashing Action" from the LotR: The Two Towers (2002), produced by Marvel-Toy Biz, for example.
Like many fans of quality television, I was looking very forward to the start of the third season of Vikings on the History Channel when it premiered recently. Beyond the superb cinematography and detailed costumes, it is the characterization of the main players that continues to draw me to the show. One of the show's primary protagonists is Lagertha, played spectacularly by Katheryn Winnick. The character, in addition to eventually reaching the unusual status of jarl (for a woman of the time), is also a well-respected shield maiden. "Shield-maiden" is apparently code for bad-a** female who can maim and lead as well as (or better) than the men with whom she fights.
Though the key action scene against the
Witch-King comes in the third movie, I wish
the packaging for this figure from the
second had alluded more explicitly to
Eowyn's status as "The Shield-Maiden of
Rohan".
Which circuitously brings me to Eowin from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Just as Lagertha provides a decidedly deadly feminine touch to the Nordic proceedings on the History Channel's Vikings, Eowyn, played by Miranda Otto, has one of the best "kills" in the entire film trilogy. Described throughout as "The Shield Maiden of Rohan," as part of the Lord of the Rings franchise, there are a few collectible action figure versions of Eowyn available, some more reasonably priced than others.
Just as when I bought the "Balrog Battle Gandalf" a few months ago, my purchase of "Eowyn with Sword Slashing Action" was something of an impulse purchase. Though this may be heresy to hardcore Middle Earth fans, while a fan of both Tolkien's books, and Peter Jackson's films, (for different reasons), it was the presence of the Eowyn shield-maiden figure in light of my appreciation of Lagertha of Vikings that prompted my purchase. In many ways, the purchase of Eowyn, a personal favorite of the film trilogy--the second two movies in which she appears, anyway--is a surrogate figure for the Laegertha figure that may never get made (or become available for the very reasonable price of ten bones.)
As both characters are emblematic of highly desirable character traits for both men and women, for now, the single "Eowyn with Sword Slashing Action" figure can stand guard of my desk in the symbolic spirit of both strong-willed and deadly characters. And so the quest for the "Eowyn in Armor" figure from 2003's Return of the King (as seen in that key-kill clip from the third film) collection begins...
My introduction to the world of Rare Exports came two years ago when I happened upon a film short entitled Rare Exports Inc. (2003), and its sequel Rare Exports: The Official Safety Instructions(2005). Produced and directed by Norwegian filmmakers Jalmari and Juuso Helander, both were produced as faux documentaries, and collaboratively contributed to developing a mythos around the exportation "distinguished, extremely rare products" to faraway countries from the wilds of Lapland (Finland).
Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale (2010) is the full-length fantasy film directed by Jalmari Helander that takes elements from both and develops them into a singular origin story of sorts for the company's product about whom the earlier two "infomercials" are made. Set near the Korvatunturi mountain, Rare Exports tells of a young boy who inadvertently discovers the secret behind the "real" Santa Claus.
The film focuses on a group of local reindeer herders whose Christmas is disturbed by excavations on the mountain. A scientist has ordered a team of workers to dig open what he calls "the largest burial mound in the world". An explosive used by the team uncovers what is referred to as a "sacred grave". However, the occupant of the grave is still alive. Soon, the reindeer important to the local people are mysteriously killed, and children and supplies begin to disappear from the town. It emerges that the occupant is the source of the original Santa Claus myth; a supernatural being who, rather than rewarding good children, punishes the naughty. One family, however, manages to catch the culprit in a trap, and plans to sell it to the scientist to cover the losses caused by his excavation.
Jorma Tommila and Onni Tommila.
Tonally, the film deftly shifts from being a tale of a hard-working community suffering through financial times in the holiday season to a horror-noir. The soundtrack by Juri Seppä and Miska Seppä provides subtle auditory transitions, while never jerking the viewer out of the film experience. If the marketing of the film weren't so holiday-themed, the surprises and twists (of which there are a few) might carry even greater impact. The beautiful cinematography by Mika Orasmaa, as well as the superb performances by Jorma Tommila and Onni Tommila, as the father and son, respectively, at the center of the story, lend this movie an eerie mid-Eighties Spielberg-Carpenter vibe. Touching, scary, and beautifully rendered, this holiday-horror-fantasy does something extremely unique (at least in my experience) in recent film: it begs to be re-watched.
In a more discerning world, Rare Exports would find its way to becoming a cult-Christmas favorite, so help get that ball rolling by watching it on direct stream via Amazon Prime this holiday season!
Never a good idea to tease "Santa" with a gingerbread man cookie!
While I vaguely recall The Secret of Kells (2009) having a brief run at my local art film theater, I regrettably never had the chance to see it on the big screen. Like so many movies that after seeing the trailer I eventually forget having had a desire to see it, my piqued interest in Kells was eventually lost to the sands of time. Fortunately for those of us with poor memories, Netflix continues to be the gift that keeps on giving. I came across the title as a "Top Picks For You" on the first day of Presidents Week Recess and began my Monday with it, happy to discuss what tremendous treasure it is.
The rarest of all animated movies (independent, multinational financing, hand drawn, and without over-the-top pop music production numbers), The Secret of Kells (2009) is directed by Tomm Moore, who also receives a story credit, from a screenplay by Fabrice Ziolkowski. Based on the story of the origin of the Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript Gospel book in Latin, containing the four Gospels of the New Testament located in Dublin, Ireland, the film also draws upon Celtic mythology.
The story, with help from Netflix, is simple: "When Vikings attack an Irish abbey, the monks must stop work on the legendary Book of Kells and protect their home. So Brendan (voiced by Evan McGuire), the 12-year-old nephew of Abbott Cellach (Brendan Gleeson), is tasked by visiting "illuminater" Brother Aidan (Mick Lally) with assisting in the completion of the magnificent work. With Brother Aidan's cat, Pangur Bán, as a partner in crime, Brendan's joins forces with Aisling (Christen Mooney), a fairy living in the woods outside of Kells. Rest assured that the execution of the director and animators assures that the story does not play out in an obvious a manner as the brief synopsis suggests.
Brendan and Aisling.
Though the easiest way of singing the praises of any animated film NOT by Disney/Pixar/Dreamworks is by contrasting it with the deficiencies of those same company's films, that would only serve to focus on the negatives of the latter rather then the fabulous positives of the former.
The voice cast is excellent, and to my ear, comprised of relative unknowns, the most recognizable voice being that of actor being Brendan Gleeson (Braveheart and the Harry Potter films among others) who plays Abbot Cellach.
The traditional (really "old fashioned" nowadays) animation is gorgeous yet somehow "edgy." When the opportunity to go the "big battle" route with the visual storytelling, the choice is made to get metaphorical (or metaphysical).
The romance is real. Of course the romance here is between man and the written word. Though the story and its religious trappings intimates the Word (capitalization intentional), much of the dialogue suggests the world of reading, writing and imagination. When it comes to books, Kells reminds us to "the cover is not the real treasure... open it." The movies core is developed around the completion and saving of "the most incredible book in the whole world capable of turning darkness into light."
If it reads as if the superlatives used here are over the top, you're reading correctly. Tonally, The Secret of Kells owes much more to the works of quiet, magic of Hayao Miyazaka (think Spirited Away) than with the more common loud and garish assembly line animated movies of recent years. For yours truly, that is more than enough reason to recommend checking it out. My only regret is not having taken the opportunity to support this time of animation/storytelling when it was given its brief theatrical release.
Pangur Bán, Brendan and Brother Aidan in the scriptorium.
With the continuing nostalgia for most-things Eighties, one can only hope that some of the more unusual cult films of that era will be rediscovered in this New Year. A director certainly ready for rediscovery is British filmmaker Ken Russell (The Who's Tommy, Altered States, and many others). While well-known by film aficionados, I suspect that there are a number of college students who would appreciate his eccentric, sexually charged storytelling--college is where I first came across his literary-based films. While studying British Luterature I came across Gothic (1986) about the night that prompted Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and, later, The Lair of the White Worm (1988).
The Lair of the White Worm is a 1988 British horror film based (very) loosely on the Bram Stoker (Dracula) novel of the same name; a novel which itself draws upon the English legend of the Lambton Worm. Written and directed by Russell, Lair stars then-TV starlets Amanda Donohoe (L.A. Law) and Catherine Oxenberg (Dynasty), as well as a very young Hugh Grant (About A Boy, Bridget Jones Diary). Of more modern interest might be the co-starring turn by a young Scot named Peter Capaldi, who was just recently been selected to play BBC TV icon Dr. Who.
I hadn't watched Lair in its entirety in almost 20 years, so was excited to come across it on Netflix a few nights ago. I am even more pleased to share that it has aged fairly well. Being an update (of sorts) of an even older story probably helped, as did Russell's tongue in-cheek approach to what he considered his "horror film." For many reasons, his experimental horror film was ahead of its time (and ours). Russell's clearly anti-Christian bent would be hard pressed in our more conservative culture (regardless of what talking heads say about "left wing media") to secure financial backing in our more modern cinema. Russell always was one to push the boundaries of acceptable content (Whore, anyone?) and the use of psychedelic visuals (the background on the poster to the right does appear n the film) and depictions of crazed pagan nude dancing and simulated sex would be late-night SyFy horror in lesser-skilled hands.
Peter Capaldi, the new Doctor Who, as Scottish archaeology student Angus Flint.
The performances by all are splendid, from the headlining stars to the now-familiar British character actors who turn up in a variety of small roles. It struck me is how under-appreciated Hugh Grant is, and I was wondering why he isn't used more frequently in films. Here is at his easy-going best, nimbly expressing a calm and cool demeanor as the foppish Lord James D'Ampton who is destined to fight the evil, serpentine Lady Sylvia Marsh (Amanda Donohoe). Grant makes acting look easy, emitting a devil-may-care vibe thoughout. It is Lord D'Ampton who gets to the crux of the problem when he surmises that, while brainstorming with Angus Flint Capaldi), "...a conflict between Christianity and some early pagan cult... possibly involving even human sacrifice" is afoot. As Grant's adversary, Donohoe is a charismatic snake-pire in blue body paint and fangs, capable of delivering hallucinogenic venom. It is Donohoe's topless performance as Lady Marsh, as well as some rather tame (by today's standards) "gore," that likely was responsible for Lair's R-rating.
Lady Marsh (Amanda Donohoe) get's freaky during a hallucination.
The Lair of the White Worm (1988) [Rated R] is a highly recommended horror film, that while short on straight up scares, does aim for a sort-of realistic approach to fantastical concepts. Creative direction and fun performances make this a worthwhile Netflix viewing experience suitable for ages 17 and up.
"Old Fashioned Spaceman" is fairly representative of the collection as a whole: Nimoy's style is free form, devoid of traditional punctuation, with occasional rhyme, and frequently self-referential. There are few writer's who can use their own careers, especially an iconic character initially brought to life on a television screen, as a means of providing cultural allusion ("logic"). As we know, though, Leonard "Mr. Spock" Nimoy was not your normal cat.
