The Movies Are In Town

The Ojai Film Festival began this week. Steve Grumette, the festival’s artistic director, locked himself in his room from mid-August through September, viewing some five hundred entries. Assisting him in this herculean effort was a distinguished panel of movie buffs who finally selected the eighty-three films that made it to this year’s screen.

Steve and his comrade in arms, Jon Lambert, have been key actors in the event ever since the first festival in 2000. Since then, thousands of films have been delivered to them by aspiring directors, screen writers and actors.

This year’s festival runs ten days, from early morning to late at night. Tickets can be purchased for a single showing of about two hours, or for the entire festival. For some, viewing every one of the eighty-three films is akin to participating in a scavenger hunt with prizes awarded at each showing. People who participate at this level can be easily identified by the “All Events” pass hanging around their necks as well as their albino skin, beady red eyes and a paranoid aversion to sunlight.

A very professional looking brochure describes the films, show times and where they can be seen. True aficionados carefully analyze the showings and meticulously plan their visitations. I, on the other hand have but one requirement that takes precedence over all the other variables. It’s the venue and its physical comfort that are uppermost in my priorities.

Over the years, the festival has shown the films in various locations. This year there are but two; the Ojai Art Center and the Sane Living meeting room. The Sane Living meeting room was once the local mortuary which, due to a lack of enough deaths in the community, closed its doors. The building then experienced several reincarnations. The latest is a very attractive facility that features a vegan restaurant and the aforementioned meeting room. Regardless of the attractiveness of the facility, I shall forever think of it as The Funeral Home.

I do not sit well on anything other than a well upholstered chair. Anything less and my fanny begins to sing to me after about thirty minutes. And not sweet lullabies. No, more like a Sousa march that is urging me to get up from my chair and relieve the discomfort that has taken up permanent residence in my nether regions.

The Funeral Home offers folding chairs that can best be found in aisle five at Costco. A semi-cushioned seat falsely beckons one with the allure of the Greek Sirens. Past experience has taught me that my fanny cannot make it through a full-length film. Random shuffling on my seat begins at the thirty-minute mark. Alternately crossing my legs and shifting back to front gives only momentary respite. At the forty-five-minute mark, all is lost. I am totally focused on my aching buttocks and have no idea what’s happening up on the silver screen.

It is for this reason that I eliminated The Funeral Home from consideration. My attention was completely focused on The Art Center. The Center with its penchant for artistic as well as physical well being has recently installed new, fully padded seats. I could probably endure a double feature albeit with a great deal of squirming, pant leg stretches, and an infinite number of pee breaks.

On Thursday evening, Jackie and I journeyed to the Center. In our quest to be the skinniest couple in America, our sustenance that day had consisted of only a small Acai bowl ably prepared in the Arcade by Revel. I don’t really believe that Acai bowls are any more healthful than a double-double chocolate sundae with a gob of whipped cream. But it makes me feel better to fool myself into believing in the yet unproven health benefits of Acai.

We both love popcorn. Jackie can convince the snack bar server at most theaters to prepare a fresh batch of the stuff. I’m not exactly sure how she does it, but I think it has something to do with feigning a chronic illness that requires that the popcorn be consumed in less than ten minutes from time it is popped.

As the Film Festival was not popping corn, we took it upon ourselves to clandestinely stow two bags of Boom Chicka Popcorn in a cleverly disguised tote. One bagful covered with Sea Salt and the other with Salted Caramel. I took the precaution of doubling up on my blood pressure medication.

Upon arriving at the Art Center, we were informed that food was unwelcome in the theater. The Festival had promised to keep the new seats pristine and were, therefore, only permitting entry with nothing more than water bottles. With nowhere to stash the Boom Chica Popcorn, we, however, felt obliged to take it to our seats where we silently swore to forego its marvelous taste. That oath lasted about ten minutes. The craving was overwhelming, and we silently ripped a San Andreas fault-sized tear in one of the bags. Realizing that chewing the delectable morsels could give us away, we ate them one kernel at a time, first soaking them into submission with our own saliva. Not yummy, but acceptable.

The first film was a five-minute animated short called Surfer Joe. The two guys who produced the film spent more time answering questions than the time consumed in running the film.

The second film, Lessons, ran ten minutes. I have no recollection of what it was about.

The third, and anchor film, was called Whitefish Season and its scheduled run time was ninety-eight minutes. Made in the middle east, the film was subtitled. Given my hearing loss, ably attested to by the two monoliths ensconced behind my suitably large ears, I hunger for subtitles. However, perhaps because of the supersonic talking speed adopted by the mostly shrieking actors, the subtitles whizzed by at the speed of light. As I was unable to tear my eyes away from the subtitles at the bottom of the screen, the film might as well have been a book. Some twenty minutes into the film, and never seeing a whitefish, Jackie and I looked at each other, retrieved what remained of our Boom Chica Popcorn and exited the theater.

Overcoming our depression, we returned to the theater on Saturday and saw Nose to Tail.  A handsomely crafted film, it chronicles one day’s unimaginable nightmares suffered by its protagonist, an aging chef. The film more than made up for the disappointments of our prior day. We celebrated by devouring a full platter of ribs at the Deer Lodge.

The people who made, and then submitted, the five hundred films are to be congratulated for their willingness to stand up and be panned by people like me. Their courage to do something different and to risk being unheralded or worse is cause for true celebration.

“The saddest journey in the world is the one that follows a precise itinerary. Then you’re not a traveler. You’re a fucking tourist.”
― Guillermo del Toro

They must have known me…

Last night as I channel surfed, I stumbled onto the last hour of the movie, Jersey Boys. I’ve seen the movie before and the live play twice. You’d think I had enough.

True to the original story, the movie chronicles the rise of the singing group The Four Seasons, from the hard-bitten streets of New Jersey to million record sellers of songs that made hearts sing. It gives ample coverage to the lives of the four men who rode the whirlwind and became household heroes, adored by young and old alike.

Originally just The Four Seasons, it morphed into Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Then through a series of misadventures, largely attributed to the bad boy of the foursome, Tommy Devito, their ascendancy ended with simply, Frankie Valli. With a fingernail-on-the-blackboard falsetto, Valli dominated the sound that made you want more.

I find it easy to get smiley and teary-eyed when I hear Sherry, Big Girls Don’t Cry, Walk Like a Man, and Will You Love Me Tomorrow. It’s as though each of the songs speaks personally to me of my own feelings. I’m sure they were thinking of me when Bob Gaudio wrote the lyrics.

My favorite, Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You, reads my mind, takes off my mask, and sums up my feelings for the woman in my life.

You’re just too good to be true
I can’t take my eyes off of you
You’d be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
And I thank God I’m alive
You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you

But how did we get here? The Four Seasons chronicles that path in song. It starts with Oh, What A Night taking me back to the first time I spoke with her at a dinner that she cleverly invited herself to. A temptress who quietly stole a piece of my heart,  and then another until she had it all.

Oh, what a night
Late December, back in ’63
What a very special time for me
As I remember, what a night
Oh, what a night
You know, I didn’t even know her name
But I was never gonna be the same
What a lady, what a night

Some of those nights, when I’m lonely, I tend to pout. I want more. Yes, she has a life to live but I’m selfish. So I feel sorry for myself and I pledge to Walk Like a Man…

Oh, how you tried to cut me down to size
Tellin’ dirty lies to my friends
But my own father said “Give her up, don’t bother
The world isn’t comin’ to an end”

Walk like a man, talk like a man
Walk like a man my son
No woman’s worth crawlin’ on the earth
So walk like a man, my son

Easy for him to say.  Because with one smile, one text, or one kiss, I’m over it. Yet I continue to look over my shoulder and wonder where the rain clouds went and when they will return. And so I ask, Will You Love Me Tomorrow?

Tonight you’re mine, completely
You give your soul so sweetly
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes
Will you love me tomorrow

Is this a lasting treasure
Or just a moment’s pleasure
Can I believe the magic of your sighs
Will you still love me tomorrow

Tonight with words unspoken
You said that I’m the only one, the only one
But will my heart be broken
When the night meets the morning star

Love is wonderful. Full of delight and unhappiness. Without one, the other would be lonely. Without both, we would never know what it means to really love someone. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons are my muses. My confidants. My friends. They must have known me.

Her Face

Just returned from Albany, New York where Jackie and I took part in two Passover Seders. Her gracious cousins, Roberta and Don, opened their Schenectady house to me. A stranger in their land, I thought I should conduct myself in a way that would be both understated yet reasonably intelligent. I knew the understated part would be easy. Intelligence is tougher to display, but can usually be easily achieved by keeping one’s mouth under control.

The trip to Albany required catching a 6am flight at LAX, a change of planes in Chicago and a strong constitution that could withstand waking at 2:30 am, driving for ninety minutes to the airport, removing various articles of clothing at TSA security, squeezing into a seat that was meant for a three-year old, and surviving more than six hours of flight time. But I’m not complaining because all that while I could look at Jackie’s face, stroke her knee, and sneak a kiss whenever I needed one…which was often.

Her face is amazing. It’s one of those “touch me, kiss me” faces that seems to reach out and beckon your attention. I find it painful not to put my hands on either side of her face, caress her cheeks and draw her close. Her lips form a perfect heart shape that cries out for a kiss. And I oblige, often.

It was generally cold and rainy in Albany, punctuated by the occasional appearance of blue sky and golden sun. Between Seders, we rode to Saratoga with cousins Rodney and Jane where we visited shops where I was thankfully able to remove my warm hat in the heated confines of the stores. We had lunch in a kitschy, sparkly restaurant where our pizza left much to be desired, limp, devoid of cheese and moderately cool to the touch. Through it all, Jackie smiled, made sure I had what I needed and made all the world seem bright with expectation.

Sunday we awoke at 6 to catch an Amtrak train for a two and a half hour trip to Manhattan where we had tickets to see Jersey Boys. Jackie had picked the musical after confirming that I had not seen the live performance.

I like trains in small doses. Especially when headed toward an exciting destination, rather than coming back. The train was clean and reasonably comfortable. We passed by depot signs with names that seemed to come from movies or detective stories. Poughkeepsie, Croton-on-Hudson, and Yonkers made me realize I was in a different world, one populated with New Yorkers and their strange but captivating accents.

I watched the light from the rising sun fall on Jackie as we paralleled the Hudson River. Her face glowing with delight as we whisked our way to Penn Station. I managed a few touches and kisses along the way but the excitement of entering foreign territory seemed to preoccupy both of us. We ate the last of our crumbly trail mix and waited for the announcement. “Manhattan…last stop…watch your step as you exit the train.”

And we emerged on Broadway. You know, the one that George M. Cohan gave his regards to in 1904. A Broadway that’s aged reasonably well in spite of its tacky gift shops, twelve-dollar suitcases and enough scammers to fill Yankee Stadium. “Let’s walk to Junior’s” Jackie said through smiling lips and eyes. “It can’t be far.” I didn’t care how far so long as I could catch a glimpse of her face and her hair as we zig-zagged through the myriad of faces that walked towards us as we counted down the blocks from Penn Station to the place where we would find the world’s best and costliest pastrami sandwich.

32^nd, 33^rd, 34^th. The streets came and went as we waited like tourists for the lights to change. And they did, but not before I could squeeze her hand and send a silent message that she would understand and smile to in response. A smile that was worth the walk. I didn’t need the pastrami to make my day.

We finished our pastrami. It was noon and the theater would open an hour and a half later. So we did what all Manhattanites do with time on their hands. We went to a bar. Sitting at the end of the long, highly polished wood bar, I was able to watch people walking up the aisle. Jackie took that walk and, on her return, flashed that cute smile that made me realize how much I had missed her. She had combed her hair with that big, black comb that she carries everywhere, making her glow even more as she stood out from the crowd.

Jackie ordered an unusual mimosa, sipped it a few times, crinkled up her cute nose, and decided it wasn’t so good. Flashing her smile and dark brown eyes at the bartender, she asked him for something else. Who could refuse that face?

Show time. The theater was a block away. We found our seats in the front row of the mezzanine, settled in and discovered that the lead role was to be filled by an understudy. Disappointed, the woman next to me filled the time by revealing most of the details of her life. Funny how complete strangers will tell you things they won’t reveal to their friends. Jackie absorbed the conversation and made small talk while I devoted my attention to the smile on her face.

The show was terrific. I would later discover that I had seen the live play accompanied by my daughter Nancy and sweet Ila more than five years ago. No matter. The songs made my feet dance and my heart sing. I even sang along quietly expecting that the wrath of our seatmates would get me tossed outside in the cold. The actors worked hard at fulfilling our expectations. And Jackie loved every minute of it.

At the end, the actors announced that they would be raising funds to combat various maladies and would be pleased to have their pictures taken with theater goers in the lobby, in return for a fairly generous contribution. We exited and grabbed onto Corey Jeacoma, the young man who played the role of Bob Gaudio, composer of the Four Seasons’ songs. Jackie lined up her majestic sixty-one pixie inches next to Corey’s towering seventy-four inch body. She looked up at Corey and I swear he nearly melted. I snapped the picture and became just little bit jealous. Silly, I know, but love will do that.

We had a delightful Italian dinner in a little, very crowded but typical Manhattan restaurant complete with narrow aisles, argumentative patrons and drafty corners. We both decided it was the best meal of our trip…even if it really wasn’t.

We taxied to Penn Station, boarded our Amtrak train and began the trip back to Albany. Jackie took the seat next to the window, closed her eyes, and slowed her breathing. The sky was darkening but there was just enough light to illuminate the edges of her forehead, her eyes, her nose and her chin. Just enough light so I could pretend that I was sitting next to a marble statue created by a long-ago genius. Just enough light to ease the trip back. Just enough light to see the face that brightens my heart.

 

Trumpenstein

Following last Friday’s Shabbat service, we went to dinner with a few other congregants at a local eatery. It’s one of the highlights of the evening and is usually accompanied by some cheap wine, interesting conversation and strengthening of friendships.

I was fortunate to grab a seat right across the table from Ralph. Always erudite and entertaining, his company is welcomed. Looking across at him I noted that his right eye seemed to be irritated and tearing. I’ve noticed it before but I’ve never asked him about it. Being halfway into my first glass of wine, I felt confident enough to broach the subject. Ralph kindly offered me a rather detailed explanation of the relatively harmless malady that he has endured for years. “Always the right eye?” I asked.

Maybe it was the wine and his eye that then led to a discussion of the brilliant Mel Brooks movie, Young Frankenstein.  To my amazement, Ralph had never seen the movie and so had no idea why I launched into it. “You see, there’s this guy Igor, Dr. Frankenstein’s helper, who has this big hump on his back. And scene to scene it migrates from the right side to the left side. Then back again. Frankenstein occasionally comments on the migration but Igor seems unaware of it.” I had visions of Ralph’s malady behaving in the same manner as Igor’s hump.

Which, naturally enough, led us into politics and to an analysis of the rise of Donald Trump…a logical segue since Trump rhymes with hump.

Now I don’t think that The Donald is nearly as funny as Peter Boyle’s portrayal of the Frankenstein monster in the Mel Brooks movie. But I do think that the movie bears some amazing parallels to the rise of Trump in the Republican party.

In the beginning of the movie, Doctor Frankenstein, ably portrayed by Gene Wilder, has sworn off the business of creating the kind of monsters that his ancestors long ago trafficked in. But, overwhelmed by the call for greatness, he ignores the evil failures wrought by his predecessors and decides to resurrect the grisly, ancient practice. Sort of like Republican leaders who ignore this country’s changing demographics and continue to bow and scrape before old, rich white men.

Wilder and Igor, played by the google-eyed Marty Feldman, piece together the monster from a body stolen from the local cemetery and grey matter taken from the town’s brain depository. A mishap causes them to unknowingly insert a maniac’s brain into the creature’s skull. Wilder and Feldman try to make the best of their error.  Like trying to create the Republican party from wise and caring folks but doing it instead with the bits and pieces of angry people who’ve been told that they live in the worst of times and should do something about it.

Thinking the monster is under control, Wilder and his lab assistant played by the lovely Teri Garr, drop their guard and allow him to escape the confines of the castle and roam wildly through the countryside. Taking advantage of the charms of the funny Madeline Kahn is merely an hors d’oeuvre as the creature burns and pillages. Sort of like those in the Republican party who ignored, and then cheered The Donald as he alienated nearly everyone on the planet.

“I think we’ve had more than enough,” says the local police chief.  Played by the wooden-handed Kenny Mars, the chief enlists the villagers to seek out and destroy the monster.  Just like the Republican old guard who finally recognize what they’ve created and have taken up the cudgel in an effort to dismember The Donald.

Cornered, and having learned his lesson, the Mel Brooks monster retreats to the castle, is relieved of his ferocity and becomes a member in good standing of the community.

And here all parallels with the Brooks fantasy end. For Trumpenstein hasn’t learned anything, except that being a monster can be very rewarding.