Other Stuff

Meanwhile...

What is it with the consonant deficiency in Hawaii? When I listen to my wife Skype with her daughter who lives on Maui, I have to listen to all these street and beach names that seem composed of excessive vowels with the odd consonant tossed in-maybe so the white folk won't try to take over that language, too. Look at the word Hawaii. Remember A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y? Count the vowels and count the consonants in Hawaii. Kinda sets the tone for the rest of their words. I wonder if they traded the Russians (Cyrillic alphabet) consonants for vowels. The Russians have so many consonants they had to include a backwards "N" because they ran out of other symbols. I can imagine how this happened. In a tavern just outside the Kremlin we see two bureaucrat comrades sharing a half-gallon of vodka.

"Comrade, how did we have so many harsh-sounding letters in alphabet?"

"Fault is mine, Comrade."

"How so, Comrade?"

"My wife. She want vacation where it's warm, she says. It had been above zero for three days. I told her it was warm enough."

"да, women!"

"да, women!"

They down their tumbler of vodka after a toast and refill.

"My wife, she make us go on this island on Pacific."

"да, Pacific!"

"да, Pacific!"

They toast and down another tumbler. Then refill.

"She is woman. She leave nothing alone! She think names of island too harsh. She fix."

"да, fix!"

"She want light sounds. She say she wants to hear sounds like birdy. She leave nothing alone! She make it for me to fix!"

"да, fix!"

"да, fix!"

Another toast and refill.

"Wife not happy until warm place have words that sound like birdy. So I trade them."

"да, trade!"

"I give them our vowels. They give us consonants. Island names sound like warm birdy. Russia sound strong!"

"да, Russia strong!"

"Yes, comrade! Russia strong. Not sound like weak birdy! We drink to Mother Russia!"

And so on.

Meanwhile...

As the year winds up we take a look at the theater's books. Normally after a few minutes of crunching numbers I scurry off to look at LOL cats. Seriously. Can anyone look at an LOL cat webpage and not either give a hearty "Awwwwww...." or retch uncontrollably as their pancreas shuts down from sweetness overload? Either way, it helps me forget about reviewing the year's revenue. This year I didn't need the pix of "invisible bicycle" or kittens begging for cheeseburgers. We appear to be surviving one of the worst economic dips I've seen! Does that mean you can slack off on coming in and buying tickets to see movies here? LOL!

Meanwhile...

I find the reactions to LORD, SAVE US FROM YOUR FOLLOWERS tend to be as varied as there are religions in the world. Either way opinions sway, I get to be the lightning rod for comment/ire/adoration. FYI, this documentary asks the question of the man/woman on the street: "What do you think of when you hear the word 'Christian'?" Now, I can be the stoic devil-may-care mustachioed biker dude and tell you exactly what I think. Except when it comes to religion. Then I am as wussy as a ten year-old boy in a pink tutu drinking a Fresca with an umbrella poking out of the can. I was so wussy I even had my friend John Ginn write the movie review. And a damned fine one it is, I should add. I have never had a film where, afterward, so many people have tried to get me to agree with their point of view. This is why you hear me repeating the phrase, "I appreciate you letting me know how you feel." First off, one of the reasons I run a theater like this is that I do care how you feel and I want to hear it. I really do. And B, these films are about how YOU feel, not me. Although it may not serve my business plan, I will tell you if I think you will not like a movie and tell you plainly not to see it. There have been more than a couple people I have directed away from LORD, SAVE US FROM YOUR FOLLOWERS. Maybe it is a business decision after all. Nothing scares off customers like having someone asking me loudly what the hell I was thinking when I booked a particular movie.

Especially when the lobby is packed with potential customers.

So shuttling someone around an incendiary film toward something more placid (like a movie about soldiers informing next of kin their loved one has died in the war) is more about consideration than censorship. And, in the end, good business.

Meanwhile...

For Christmas I got a yoga mat. Sometimes the jokes just write themselves.

Meanwhile...

Roger Ebert just published his list of The Best Films of 2009. Five of them could be seen in Corvallis only at the Darkside.

DEPARTURES has been playing 14 weeks. Yep, 14 weeks. And, it's number one on Ebert's list of independent films. Hate subtitled films? Give this one a few minutes and you will forget it's subtitled. Long ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth the studio distributing this film sent me a screener to appraise. I ran it on my laptop while doing office work in the living room. Since my wife was in the living room working too, I had the headphones on. I laughed all they way through this movie. I mean I thought it was a scream. Not Jeeves and Wooster funny. Just damn funny. My wife watched me giggle and laugh for over two hours. She waited until the movie was on the screen at the Darkside before watching it. When she finished watching the movie she walked right from the auditorium to the projection booth where I was working. Her comment was, "You are messed up. That was NOT a comedy." So far most people seem to agree with her.

Our living room table is covered with DVD screeners from studios. They arrive in numbers greater than the 1990s Great AOL Disc Tsunami. TRUCKER was one on the pile for some time. I noticed Michelle Monaghan was on the face of the disc so I tossed it into the player, cut up a Fuji apple and settled in. TRUCKER had holes in it big enough to throw a dog through, but I loved it. It had the soul of other movies I loved. So, I took a chance and played it. Attendance sucked for the most part, but those who knew enough to trust me loved it. And now Ebert loves it. Remember that next time I tell you a film is worth seeing.

GOODBYE SOLO was another coffee table squatter. I have to admit that I got into it about ten minutes and then I got called away. I never got back to it. (I think a new ALIEN VS PREDATOR movie came out or something.) I trusted my darling wife to watch it. She loved it. She was right. It was one of those films that had to hack its way into distribution and onto the screens of theaters like, well, the Darkside. Those of us who took the chance on it were well rewarded-realizing the fight was worthy. Too bad it wasn't a monetary reward, but that's not the only reason we're here ...

AN EDUCATION came to us through a studio we do a lot of business with. In this biz we often have to play product we would rather not. But, since the arrival of the carnivorous multiplexes, we can no longer cherry pick which movies we will and will not play. We have to "work with" the studios. AN EDUCATION was a payoff for the more than a few movies we played that grossed less than the cost of a good sushi plate.

We brought in THE HURT LOCKER after its flirtation on the screen of the multiplex. I saw this one in Portland. We had passes to the movies; we were not there to see a specific film, but to see something that was currently playing. I "settled" for THE HURT LOCKER. It took ten minutes before I forgot what it was I had really wanted to see. THE HURT LOCKER was an important enough film that I accepted the table scraps of ticket sales after the big dogs feasted upon it. Those who took my word to see it knew why it played at the Darkside.

So, here's the point I'm trying to make: you might wanna budget some money to see what we at the Darkside recommend. We do know what we are doing. The coming year is full of good movies. Let us prove it to you.

No, we do not accept rubles.
 

New Fangled Technology

It is some type of video/talking thingy. I think it’s called Skype. It seems to involve cell phone calls and emails and smoke signals before an actual video/audio conversation can take place. Then the image seems to lag behind to the point where the visual end of the conversation is rendered useless or offensive. Imagine laughing at a cute child and having it delayed just that child is telling you about her dead gerbil. It seems this technology works best when it would be nice if it didn’t. It allows another person into the room when you least expect. My wife is used to seeing me wander around the house in something less dignified than a tux and cane. I recently walked into the kitchen in my non-public outfit to warm up my coffee. My wife was at her computer when I realized she was video chatting with her daughter. I heard a chirpy “Hi, Paul!” and turned to see my step-kid looking at me from my wife’s laptop screen. Thank goodness I wasn’t in drag or reading Cathy cartoons. I still bolted from the kitchen feeling like someone had walked in on me in the bathroom. Welcome to 2009.

 

2009 is the same year my father-in-law turned 81. I hope a falling birthday cake hits the person who carved into our cultural landscape the notion that we should sing Happy Birthday. It used to be that singing over the phone was good enough. That way if I am in drag no one will know. Alas, it’s 2009 and we must video chat the song. After 20 minutes of being told it would be just a second before the connection is made, I wandered off to the sofa and my Cathy cartoons. Suddenly I hear my wife’s father proclaiming that this electricity thing is overrated and won’t be around much longer. The irony being that he is literally a rocket scientist who knows more about electricity than 99.9% of anybody. After another eon of trying to make the connection, I hear him reciting the age-old refrain “Can you hear me?” followed by the comment, “This is about 2% better than the tin cans and string my brother and I used to use.” My wife waved me over with an urgency indicating this connection might be gone in a millisecond so we needed to sing right damn now. I dropped around to the other side of the computer in time to see a rather comical image of her dad’s nose distorted into a fun-house perspective. Then the image disintegrated into some sort of blotchy tile work. And I am expected to sing to this pixilated disarray. My father-in-law and I seem to embrace the absurdity quietly and good intentions openly—out of respect for my wife’s efforts and, as silly as it may seem, there is an enduring charm and humor when someone is singing Happy Birthday to you.

 

When it comes to computers my wife is the one you want under the desk poking at network boxes and routers. (Or whatever the heck they are.) This is her world and she’s good at it. She is good at it because she loves it. The thing about loving something is you give it a lot more latitude than others will. That means for her there is nothing wrong with making someone wait 20 minutes for something to work. For me, I would rather be flinging birthday cakes at songwriters. Even after uncomfortable exposure, the reality is that Skype will be part of my life from this point forward. A lot like grey hair and birthdays.

 

My wife took off to Hawaii in one of those newfangled over-sized cigar tubes they called aero planes. Soon after she left, the temp dropped into the single digits—which explained why the only thing flowing out of the kitchen sink faucet was a hollow sucking sound. I was out at the sidewalk trying to pry off the frozen water meter cover with a crowbar (no foolin’) when my cell rang. It wasn’t a call. It was an image of my wife on a boat in the Hawaiian sun. What better use for a cell phone camera than to torment those in opposing climates?

 

Since I drive an old diesel, getting it started in cold, cold weather sucks out loud. Leaning toward lazy, I decided I would drive my wife’s car—since she was sitting on an island chuckling at our weather. Her car is one of those newfangled hybrids. Even though I am a car guy, I have little experience with this breed of car, so I thought this might be the perfect chance to commune with a vehicle of the future. I almost got this car out of the driveway before I wanted to commit crimes against the instrumentation. Yes, it needs servicing. Thank you. Now shut the hell up and tell me how much gas is left in the tank. Do you really need to go all Windows 95 on my ass and not let me do anything until I acknowledge the popup? It was more than a little gratifying when, for that lone second I got the dash to work, it told me the gas mileage was close to that of my Mercedes diesel.

 

Mileage is important to me since I drive down to Eugene a couple of days a week. On my way back I stop and eat at this hot dog place just south of Harrisburg. It is an unassuming establishment with a junkyard motif. The family who runs it doesn’t seem too concerned with the way they do it in the big city. This is a good thing. You order through a window on the side of the trailer. (Which allows for a peek at the spotless food prep area.) The hot dog I order is roughly the size of a German shepherd—so big it comes with a knife and fork. Usually when I pull in there I'm on my motorcycle or in my old Mercedes—both of which blend nicely with the blue-collar vehicles in the lot. This day I pulled into the lot in my wife’s hybrid. I was wishing I had a bumper sticker that read: “I’d Rather be Driving My SUV and Eating Meat.” While standing outside talking with the owner of the restaurant, I found myself making excuses for driving a hybrid. He listened and nodded, feeling my embarrassment.

 

Then it was off to Portland by way of Woodburn. My buddy keeps a car collection out there at his farm. When I stopped in he showed me a car frame sitting on the ground without a body. The body was at the shop getting painted. The remaining skeleton of that car was freshly restored. The perfectly finished and appointed engine graced the front of the car. This is a world I'm not entirely unfamiliar with—American muscle cars and their inner workings. I understand why he considered it worth mentioning that the little clips that hold the brake lines in place were supposed to be silver, not black. My knee-jerk reaction was to sarcastically intone Marlon Brando, “The horror. The horror.” But this car was a piece of automotive history, not just an ornament for the driveway. Thus, the colour of the clips was a consideration. Was it enough of one to pull it all apart and redo them? A question best left for discussion at lunch.

 

We decided to take the hybrid to lunch, figuring this would provide ample fodder for humor. We were talking when we piled into it. When I pushed the “go” button on the dash, the conversation stopped. The contrast between this car and the car in his shop settled onto us like a change in the weather. I think it was exacerbated by the lack of sound when the car was “started.” Had we dreamed of how common a gas/electric car would be when we were a couple of teenagers tricking out our Super Sport Impalas? We were now in that future we couldn’t even imagine when gasoline had lead. When the hybrid went into gear it silently edged up to the highway. While we waited for the traffic, he asked if it had any get-up-and-go. When there was a gap in the traffic I hammered it to the floor. The gas engine started and it took off impressively—impressively if you have never driven a big block muscle car with a four speed and 4.11 rear-end gears. However, not much has really changed with us. No matter how the car is powered, our first priority will be to see how it stands up to the hold-it-to-the-floor-and-see-what-happens test.

 

My buddy’s life has been spent up to his elbows in motor sports. The automotive adventures we shared when we were young are some of the best times of my life. I imagine for him they are but a blip in his car experiences, but our self-righteous feeling of what makes a car a car was galvanized when we rebuilt our first engine together in 1976—a 1958 Rambler six cylinder. Once you’ve hefted the cold steel of an overbuilt American crankshaft, you are ruined for life.

 

When I got back from Portland, I took a picture with my phone of the grey clouds hanging in the trees near our house and sent it to my wife in Hawaii. In less than a second, it crossed the Pacific and squirted into her phone. She called less than a minute after that and asked if there was something she was supposed to see in the picture. I guess I was hoping she was sweating in some tropical jungle longing for the cool PNW. Actually, she was overlooking the sea from high on a hill enjoying a cool breeze while drinking a Mai Tai. I lose.

 

I refused to Skype with her while she was on vacation. I figured it would be like the first time I used digital projection in one of my auditoriums—learning to use it would be a shallow, frustrating learning curve. So I did not want to try to get this software/camera/connection conglomeration to sync up. I'm told Skype will revolutionize how we communicate. I was also told digital projection would make my life as an exhibitor so easy my projectionist would be able to do his/her job via Skype. Well, that ain’t the way it’s working out. Last night during one of the most critical scenes on THE MESSENGER the Hi Def projector thought it would be just dandy to switch over to the pre-show ads. Perfect. I still have no idea why this happened. It’s worked flawlessly since.

 

I no longer assume my wife is just on the phone when I walk into the kitchen wearing nothing but my boxer briefs. If she is chatting wildly with someone, I must now assume someone is in the kitchen with her. Since, in a virtual sense, they are in the kitchen with her. Instead of Big Brother, it might be her Little Sister watching my every move. Whether I want her to or not. And if you think about it, whether she wants to be watching me or not. Nothing like pouring my coffee and hearing a tinny voice coming from the computer, “Hey Paul! When’s the last time you shaved your legs?” Thanks to Skype and through the miracle of the Internet, she can now see that I am doing more than just scratching the top of my nose with my middle finegr.

Movie Review: DEPARTURES

Most movie reviews I write for films playing at the Darkside are not written to sell the film. If we're playing it, once the lights go down and the projector rolls it usually sells itself. The object of these reviews is to convince you that you need to see it here-to motivate you into coming through our door, up to the counter, and into an auditorium. Oftentimes the motivators can be that the movie may never be on DVD, or that the film must be seen on a big screen and experienced with other people, or that you can rent 50 FIRST DATES anytime (God knows why) and it is time to get the heck outta the house and take a chance with something that features neither Adam Sandler or Drew Barrymore.

When it comes to the movie DEPARTURES, there is little chance this film will not be in a single-digit position on your list of the top 20 films of the year. This Japanese feature won the Foreign Language Film Oscar in 2008. This doesn't always mean it's a great film, but it presents a pretty solid indication that the film is worth a look.

Daigo is a young man whose life as a musician in the big city falls apart. He is forced to relocate to his dilapidated childhood home in the country. This is a big step down for him and his wife. Soon after they arrive in his hometown he begins pounding the streets looking for a job and finds himself accidentally working with the dead.

Daigo answers an ad for a job in "departures." Figuring it has to be in the travel industry, he applies and happily shows up for his first day of work. This is when he finds out he is helping with the ceremonial "encoffination" of the "departed" prior to cremation. We know what's coming: the first day on the job exposes Daigo to the most odious and odiferous aspects of the job. It's not too much of a surprise that he doesn't tell his wife what he really is doing. Daigo finds that the work-and his avuncular boss, Sasaki-grow on him. But when Daigo's wife Mika stumbles across what he's been doing to pay the bills, she isn't too keen on her husband being one who handles the dead for a living.

DEPARTURES lets you into a different world and reality through the story of Daigo, his wife, his boss, and his return to the community he was raised in. But the movie uses the beauty and pomp of the preparation for cremation to address wider issues about death. It does so without bludgeoning us with sappy sentimentality. Okay, maybe a little. Daigo has developed a deep understanding that the ceremonial dressing, washing, and honoring of the departed is more for the benefit of the living than the dead. The subtlety and ease with which they dress the dead without compromising modesty in the presence of the mourners seems like a magic trick-at the same time intones reverence for the mystery of death. There is flamboyance and grace in the way Daigo and his boss do what they do. It's a bit of a show for the loved ones, who see that the care and ritual afforded the shell of those passed is a way of celebrating the life that has ended. And the lives of those yet to depart.

The magic of DEPARTURES is how quickly the viewer becomes familiar with the culture and landscape of the story. One is drawn into that life and away from one's own, which is the gift of cinema done well.

DEPARTURES is subtitled Japanese and is rated PG-13.