Jerry Sommer FPL Commercial

There's nothing wrong with this FPL commercial. (Although I don't know who Jerry Sommer is and there seems to be some overlap with other commercials.) I only include it here because I find it very odd that in a commercial that talks about savings, they show a small child in a full-sized bed in a fully designed bedroom. Why do you suppose the art director chose such an unusual visual?

No picture thank goodness.

I heard a news story today both sad and infuriating. It seems a bicycler was being chased by a dog off the leash and he shot the dog to death. I am always disturbed by the death of an animal especially this one which was being trained as an service dog. I don't know how threatened the cycler really felt. You have to be suspicious of anyone carrying a gun, but I do know the dog's owner was an idiot to let him off without a leash. I have no tolerance for people who don't respect simple laws and this law is constantly ignored. Maybe now that dog owners know that their unleashed dog can be shot and killed without the supposedly threatened killer being arrested or even fined might make owners more careful. It's heartbreaking that this innocent dog had to die because his owner was so careless.

"Hmmm. Now where did I leave my good shirt?"

I don't understand today's fashion choices. Look at this ad for American Apparel. Does anything about this ad make any guy think, "Ive got to have that shirt and those jeans." ? There's nothing particularly distinctive about either of these items, certainly not enough to do a media buy to show them off. I know this anemic, almost-bearded, not-really-attractive model type is very in, but is this shapeless over-blue shirt? are these drab look like cheap polyester jeans? I have never been been a fashion maven and never will be, but even Old Navy polo shirts are more interesting than these probably costly togs. I'm pleased to see that these products are Made in the U.S.A. which is certainly in their favor.

Dodge Journey | Search | Commercial

This is the kind of commercial that seems to bother me and nobody else. I don't know who the announcer is, but he has a good voice. And he makes his living doing voice-overs and possibly acting. What I don't get is if you make your living reading English, you should take some care in using it correctly. There is no innanet. The word is internet. It has a t in it, one that should be pronounced. I don't understand why it's so difficult for so many announcers and average people to accept that simple fact. I find it a a very innarresting problem.

What'll I Do-The Great Gatsby (Song Written by Irving Berlin 1923)

So that you won't think I hate everything, I am including this opening sequence from The Great Gatsby, not for the cinematography, which I like, but for Irving Berlin's song "What'll I Do?" which I consider one of the most brilliant songs ever written for its mood and its use of so few words.

"DON'T RAIN ON MY PARADE" - "Funny Girl"'

You might think that I included this scene from Funny Girll because I like it so much. Wrong. I detest it. I hated the movie, and I wasn't crazy about the Broadway production even though I was fortunate enough to see the original with Barbra Streisand before she sold out to popularity. Actually the reason I am including this is to point out that songs often become popular despite some really stupid lyrics. I'm surprised that these lyrics were written by Bob Merrill, whom I greatly admire because, for the most part, they're really dumb. They begin with "Don't tell me not to move just sit and putter. Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter." Is that dumb or what? What person said to her, "Don't move. Just sit and putter." Nobody. It's absurd. How is life candy and the sun a ball of butter? Frankly those are kind of sickening metaphors. I have several friends who really love this scene from Funny Girl. If they're reading this, they can enjoy it again. I personally find it annoying as hell.

Note: This segment is also an excellent example of a post I wrote a while back complaining about the "empty suitcase" one finds in most films. Even the best directors fail to make luggage look sufficiently heavy. In this sequence Streisand would not have been able to navigate all those moves if those already-heavy leather bags had anything in them. My feeling is if the scene lacks reality it loses a lot of its power. Empty suitcases certainly qualify as lacking reality.

Tight squeeze.

In case you think that billion dollar corporations aren't generous, I have an incident to report. Recently Colgate introduced a new toothpaste called Optic White. It was very costly, but I thought I'd give it a try. When I read the packaging I was surprised to see a grammatical error. One of the legends on the package read:With regular use it removes stains ordinary toothpaste don't. Being an avid letter writer, both pro and con, I wrote to the company pointing out this blunder. In a short period of time, I received a letter from the executive offices thanking me for pointing this out, assuring me that error would soon be remedied, and that to show their gratitude they were sending me a gift. What was the gift? A packet of coupons giving me as much as 25 cents off on a variety of products I wouldn't be buying anyway.

Note: Speaking of companies that have no scruples (were we?) don't you think the woman in this visual was deliberately chosen because she looks like Marilyn Monroe, which is like getting a celebrity's picture without having to pay a celebrity price?

I can name five terrific movies you will never see: Trap Line, Zacana, Shadow of the Rain, Deathstyles, When the Wind Blows. You will never see them because they will never be made. Each of these is a first-rate screenplay written by my partner, Peter Tomasello. And you will never see them because it is nearly impossible to get a Hollywood agent or studio to read one's material and even harder to get these overpaid suits to recognize quality writing. I was going to continue this rant, but decided that was just as futile as trying to make a Hollywood studio see why any one of Peter's scripts would make a movie a hundred times better than such multi-million dollar crap as Super 8, a pathetic overproduced bore created by the two self-satisfied hacks shown above.

A diamond among the paste.

As a Comcast subscriber, I have access to dozens of channels, so there's lots to see, but nothing to watch. Every night I go down the list of crappy programming, looking for something of value. If there is anything, you can pretty much expect that when you click it on, you are more likely see a series of commercials than the program itself. Then of course there's On Demand, which allows you to watch past episodes of all the lousy series you didn't want to see in the first place. I don't deny that there are good programs like Jon Stewart, the MSNBC shows, and a few intelligent sitcoms. I admit I like The Big Bang Theory, The King of Queens, Everyone Loves Raymond and Seinfeld. But I often turn them off mid-program when there have been so many commercials I've lost track of the story or don't care anymore. Besides how often can you watch an episode you've already seen too many times. Last night I tried The Green Lantern a recent film which cost $3.99. After 25 minutes of special effects and no story to speak of, I gave up on this boring loser. That's when I turned to Turner Classic Movies and had a great TV watching experience with no commercial interruptions. The movie was 1957's Sweet Smell of Success directed by Alexander Mackendric, which I had not seen in years. Everything about it was superior to anything on television today. A brilliant, hard-edge script by Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman. Superb acting by Tony Curtis in one of his finest roles as sleazy Sidney Falco; Burt Lancaster as the Winchell-like J.J .Hunsecker, a cruel and powerful columnist obsessed with his neurotic sister; and Barbara Nichols as the vulnerable nightclub worker considered as fungible as the cigarettes she sells. Watching this black and white film, one didn't have to deal with the acrobatic cinematography of today's hack cameramen, because it was filmed by the master: James Wong Howe. No crappy imitative music since the original score was by Elmer Bernstein. And instead of the untalented exrras one sees today, supporting roles were played by talented and respected actors like San Levene, Jeff Donnell, Joe Frisco and Emile Meyer. On another night of wimpy television, it was great to see this perfectly crafted and disturbingly powerful film. Pity one had to reach back 54 years for quallity entertainment.

Mommy and Daddy Dearest

Who are these creepy advertisers and creative teams who are amused by misanthropic commercials like this. They set up a charming holiday scenario in which the parents are preparing their home for Christmas and the supposedly welcome arrival of their son. But as soon as he arrives they take off in his car. This is not amusing; it's not witty; and it really doesn't intimate that the car is that irresistible, just that the parents are sociopaths. Also they are obviously wealthy. If they wanted an Audi so much, why didn't they buy one of their own?

Caskets are creepy. Call them coffins and they're even creepier. But sarcophagi are kind of neat. I wonder why we don't follow the lead of the ancient Egyptians and bury our dead in beautifully decorated sarcophogi. I think it would make a funeral service much less depressing. Instead of all that pollished maple, those brass handles and those uselessly comfortable satin tufts, you would have a container of wood, stone or metal that was humanoid in shape and decorated with everything that represented the deceased. That could include family photos, album covers, Playboy centerfolds, or just the kind of things one usually puts on the refrigerator. The wealthy, of couse, might choose a sarcophagus of silver or gold, but that is very tempting to grave robbers. It occurred to me recently when I was at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts that I wouldn't find it nearly as depressing knowing I'd be buried in a colorful sarcophagus. But, then again, I did plan on being cremated. Decisions. Decisions.

Note: In case you care the word sarcophagus means "flesh eating" since early versions were made of limestone, which is considered to dispatch one's body rather quickly,

The gift of an argument.

As most of my friends know I am an atheist, and have been since about the age of 12. I am totally bemused that anyone imagines that there is a god who actually cares about what they do or don't do, and has a future planned for them in some kind of eternal paradise. I, of course, believe that, like any insect or animal, we have one shot at life and then are returned to the timeless oblivion from which we accidentally sprang. I could never accept on faith that "there is something there". Despite that I have come up with a good argument for those who feel one should believe in god on faith. And here it is. Imagine 500 years ago that someone said he knew there was a mysterious force on earth that could change every aspect of life. It could create light, motion, energy, power ships, allow man to communicate with the rest of the world within minutes, even allow man to fly. It would sound insane at the time, and of course he couldn't prove it because he didn't know how. In short, others would have to accept it on faith. Assume that many people did and became his followers (disciples). As such, they would then say to anyone who would listen, "Someday there will be this power that will change everything". Naturally centuries passed and one day the age of electricity began and our prophet's predictions came true. I think this is a good argument for those who believe in god and afterlife. Myself, I still think it's a lot of hokum.

I must say the flight was good.

After being offended by the two recent productions of H.M.S. Pinafore, I went to see the Boston production of Peter Pan, a so-called 360 presentation in a state-of-the-art theater at Boston's City Hall Plaza. It was easy to ignore the high ticket price of $75.00 since I had one of the best seats in the house, or rather tent. As I had hoped the special effects were excellent and the flying amazing, though the thin wires were far from invisible. Unfortunately other than that, the show sucked. This rewritten Peter Pan had no charm at all and in no way was a winning as the Broadway musical (which they would have been wise to have used). While the audience was filled with excited children with their one-must-assume affluent parents considerng the ticket prices, I could not tell how they felt about this show. I was especially surprised when I didn't hear loud "ahs" at the first flying scenes as one always does on Broadway. This show, according to the program, featured 23 actors—none of them especially appealing. Curiously Peter Pan was male (a rarity) and bare-chested. This was dumb, especially since it revealed a musculature that was not that of a boy but a late teen. Wendy had off-putting pigtails and both John and Michael seemed well into their twenties. Nana, a charming puppet was carried about by a highly visible puppeteer, which must have greatly confused the children in the audience. Mr. and Mrs. Darling were both ordinary, but then they had to deal with the script of some hack who deemed himself worthy of rewriting James Barrie. More irritating than anything was Tinkerbell, a talented aerial acrobat with the most annoying voice you can possible imagine. Even if the show had been good, I could not have listened to this cloying sound for long. Once again I cannot criticize the entire show because I barely got through the first act with its over-the-top pirates and far from childhood Lost Boys. I was also surprised to see Captain Hook graphically cut the throat of a pirate, an oddly violent action for a production aimed mostly at children. Having seen the Broadway musical on TV with Mary Martin, on stage with Sandy Duncan and on video with Cathy Rigby, I would proclaim all of them excellent so don't assume I have an animosity toward Peter Pan. Like the two recent versions of H.M.S. Pinafore, this is another example of arrogant producers, writers and directors who think they are much more clever the originators of time-honored material.

Two very leaky boats. Photo shown is not one.

Recently PBS announced they were going to present the new Tyrone Guthrie theater production of H.M.S Pinafore: a great event to a Savoyard like me. Unfortunately my enthusiasm was short-lived once I saw this dreadful travesty. In their arrogance the creators badly reinterpreted Arthur Sullivan’s music, gave short shrift to Sir William Gilbert's brilliant lyrics and book and created a production slightly less gay than Le Cage Aux Folless. Despite some good reviews, I cannot believe the audience was pleased with this musical mishmash distinguished only by a highly polished staging, and I literally mean the wood. The excessively fruity dance numbers weren't even original and nothing suggested the British Navy in 1800. The sisters and the cousins and the aunts were particular cringe-worthy with their mugging and overacting in general. I can’t honestly say I saw the entire show as it would have been too painful to see something I have always enjoy so badly done. And when I say it was bad, I mean it was worse than any of the many productions I have seen, including high school efforts. In 1878-79, after its introduction in London, H.M.S. Pinafore was so popular there were over there were over 150 unauthorized productions in the United States. I am sure the majority of them were far better than this absurdity. Shortly after being exposes to this trash, I went to Boston and to remove the bad taste I went to see a production of HMS Pinafore at Harvard’s Agassiz Theater. Once again, the director and producers seem to feel they know best and while they stayed true to the music and lyrics they presented the ship’s crew in U.S. Navy middy blouses and the sisters/cousins and aunts were— after first appearing illogically in trench coats—were all wearing cheap house dresses and carrying purses a la Mother Harper. Another costume "inspiration" was to have the long-legged heroine Josephine, except for the last scene, wear slacks. To make matters worse they were not miked so Gilbert’s lyrics were barely audible. It was still more entertaining than the Guthrie version. Why do so many theater people feel they know better than the brilliant creators of the material? H.M.S Pinafore should be done as was it originally conceived by its two geniuses. Pinafore is witty enough that it doesn't need to be camped up by some dizzy director. One of the joys of the show is the costumes, notably those of the female cast members. If the directors and producers of these classical operettas don’t appreciate the material then do something else. But don’t take a masterpiece and degrade it with the mediocrity of your ego.

Note: I was going to include a photo from either of the drab productions which I mentioned, but decided I would rather show you a cast dressed as they should be. When the H.M.S. Pinafore is done correctly as written, it looks like the photo above, making it a joy to the eye as well as the ear.

Garden pest.

It is just after dawn in Boston's Public Garden. The barely risen sun gives a golden glow to the dew-wet glass and makes the autumnal maples seem over more fiery. There are no clouds in the sky and though it is November the air is almost warm. This would be a rare moment of perfection except that something is wrong— the same thing that is wrong with almost every American city and town. Disturbing this idyllic moment of serenity is the loud monotonous droning of two leaf blowers, making a silent communication with Nature impossible. Not far away from me one joyless city worker is mindlessly stirring up clouds of golden maples leaves. To what purpose? None. Across the glass smooth pond another worker moves his even louder machine meaninglessly back and forth, scaring off any birds that might otherwise be singing and discouraging squirrels from scampering anywhere near this threatening sound. It is amazing to me that a device this foul and unpleasant is so ubiquitous and forgiven for it constant assaults on harmony. One would think that a city as civilized as Boston would have banned this monstrosity so that residents and visitors could enjoy the historic harmony of this city without the intrusion of this bullying monotoned polluter, which does nothing but foul the air, rearrange debris, assault the ears and depress the spirit. When I ask people if they are as bothered as I am, the invariable answer is “yes” followed by a shrug, which says they have no choice but to tolerate this tyrannical unpleasantness. And this is why nothing is being done to suppress one of the most annoying aspects of our society,

I wonder how I really feel.

I cannot escape the feeling that it I weren't taking medicines for my health, my health would be greatly improved. But we have been convinced that to cease taking these medications puts us in greater danger of debilitating illness or death, and since we are not physicians we have to surrender to the advice of experts. Still there have been days when I felt very, to use an old word, hale, and then recalled that I had forgotten to take one or more pills. It seems the more pills my doctors add, the greater number of problems accompany them. If your doctor prescribes a pill for your prostate, say goodbye to virility. Once you start a pill for high cholesterol expect to be weaker and less muscular. Take a pill for a good night's sleep, and you'll feel logy all the next day. Some side effects are unnoticeable, others very obvious. You may put on weight, lose weight, have diminished eyesight, have trouble sleeping, have difficulty waking or just plain not feel yourself. Others you may not know until it's too late, when your kidneys say, "I've had enough of this shit. Get me to a dialysis center" Still I get up every morning and take my Hyzaar, Simvestatin, Avodart and Prevacid, but never without this thought: What the hell am I doing? Carl Sandburg once wrote, "When I was ill, I took so many medicines that I was sick a long time after I got well."

Every now and then a movie comes along and as you watch it unfold, you think of all the people to whom you must recommend this wonderful film. You are stunned by the disturbing theme, and impressed by the stellar cast: Kirstin Dunst, Kieffer Sutherland, John Hurt, Charlotte Rampling and all the other superb actors who you should, but don't, know But it isn't long before you think this movie is really stupid. What was I thinking? To me that film was Melancholia. Perhaps I was taken in by the opening scenes and lush music, reminiscent of 2001. Or maybe it was the charm of the first actual scene of a gorgeous Kirsten Dunst, magnificently wedding-gowned. trapped with her handsome groom in a limousine too stretched for the circular country road leading to her wealthy brother-in-law's country mansion. They get there, of course, and the film then begins its pretentious and illogical plummet to become Smiles of Summer Night meets When Worlds Collide.While I wont deny it's riveting, it's also full of holes. Kirstin a copywriter? I don't think so. Kieffer doing what he did? Nah. And the ending which I won't reveal is about as stupid and unlikely as anything I've seen. As is usual with pretentious and obtuse films, many critics are falling all over themselves in praise of this pretty nonsense. The only reason to see it is because Kirstin is excellent and beautiful and because you'll want to ask yourself the question: What would you do?

Note: I am sure someone will tell me that in my ignorance I missed the entire meaning of this film. I hope they do. I'd love to know what it all means.