I finally finished reading the first volume of Drawn and Quarterly’s huge Walt and Skeezik collection. Published last year, it collects all Frank King’s Gasoline Alley daily newspaper comic strips from way back in 1921-22. It’s an amazing book! I took my time with it, spreading out the reading over many, many months, to better savor the strips flow of time as much as possible. And unlike in most comic strips, time actually does flow. Baby Skeezik, found abandoned on Walt’s doorstep on Valentine’s day 1921 quickly become the strips heart - and one of the greatest pleasure of the strip is watching the baby slowly grow, eventually speaking his first words, taking his first steps - and getting more and more independent - more of a mischief maker. Set in a back alley of auto shops - a lot of the humor naturally centers around cars. Two long road trips take up a fair amount of space, and both (thought especially the first, longer one) make for wonderful departures - the comic is well served by the breathing room these wider vistas provide Frank King. It’s generally a wonderfully relaxed and gentle strip - as long as you have it in you to overlook a certain amount of racial and sexist “humor” - which hasn’t aged particularly well - and somewhat mars the strip for the contemporary reader. But at other times, its dated aspect makes it an even more interesting read. Just looking at all those lovingly drawn old cars is a lot of fun, and some of the gentle, old-fashioned jokes are historically interesting even when they aren’t particularly funny. Actually there are many strips in this volume that don’t really try for laughs, but shoot for a sort of cuteness, much more bearable thanks to their aged distance from (annoying!) contemporary attempts to deploy the cute card. Of course for me - the books ultimate charm lies in Frank King’s gorgeously understated artwork. His lumpy characters are especially are a pleasure to look at. Volume two of Walt and Skeezik, collecting the daily strips from the next two years is scheduled to be released this June - and I can’t hardly wait. These books are real treasures. 11:24 PM >>> 0 comments

Jim McBride’s David Holzman’s Diary is a weird classic of independent low budget cinema from 1967, a mock documentary, that in some sense still feels like a documentary (even when you know it’s a fake). Shot entirely with one camera - as a diary film with the main character filming himself, his girlfriend and his walks around his neighborhood and onto the subway in New York City, it definitely captures a slice of that lost, gritty world. It starts out charmingly, but quickly turns into more of a tale of disturbing obsession, as “Holzman” seems to become unable to live his life unless he’s capturing it on film. The one scene I really liked the most has him staying in and watching TV all night alone. He aims his camera at the TV screen and lets a few frames roll every time there’s a cut on whatever program is on - so we get to see a whole night’s worth of 1967 television programming (including an original Star Trek broadcast) in just a few minutes of screen time. Later scenes, as his obsession with several woman that he’s essentially stalking takes over the film, one becomes a little scared wondering where this is going to end up - figuring it’s heading down a dark road. It doesn’t exactly make for a completely successful viewing experience, partially because of its technical limitations, which occasionally become distracting, but mostly because the movie is never quite as interesting as it seems to think it is. Luckily, with a running time of only seven-three minutes, there’s not really enough time for it to become completely tiresome either.

Second Run DVD’s new disc also includes the sixty-one minute film, My Girlfriend’s Wedding. From 1969, in some ways I think it’s a more interesting film, certainly more psychologically deep, but in other ways, it’s sometimes also much more tiresome. For this film, they’ve shot a “real” documentary - just kind of letting the camera roll, mostly on McBride’s girlfriend, a slightly crazy seeming English woman who is planning to get married to another man (who she doesn’t really know) so she can stay in New York with McBride. The camera rolls and she rambles on - taking everything out of her purse and describing it, then going on to talk about her father, her son, and her jumbled up hopes. Again, there’s very much of a film of its times kind of feel here, which unfortunately is the burnt out end of the sixties. They film her pathetic wedding and then the depressing night after. But again, there’s a very nice coda made up of little shots, a three minute montage as they drive from NYC to San Francisco. Really, sometimes America can be so beautiful it hurts! Like David Holman’s Diary the image and sound quality, due to no budgets and a seat of your pants kind of style (just shoot it) is sometimes distracting, sometimes pleasing. My Girlfriend’s Wedding though, is in color, which makes for a nice contrast to the earlier film’s black and white approach. The faded color film stock does give it that old home movie feel, which is essentially what it is - also an unblinking portrait of a unusual woman caught up in her times and her own head. Sometimes annoying, sometimes mesmerizing. At the worst, both films are a tiny piece of history captured, and both are well worth at least one viewing. 12:23 AM >>> 4 comments

Michael Oliver’s biography of Igor Stravinsky provides a very good introduction to the life and music of the composer. Published in 1995 as part of Phaidon’s 20th-Century Composers series, it’s the perfect size and lavishly illustrated with tons of photographs and great drawings from the likes of Picasso and Cocteau (both pals of Stravinsky's Paris years). I’ve been wanting to start reading as many books from this series as I possible could for the last few years, but this is only the first one I’ve read - and I ended up liking the approach used a lot. First - the book is only 220 pages long - the perfect length to hold your interest and not bog your mind down with countless details of questionable value. Oliver tells the basic story of Stravinsky’s interesting life - from Russia to Europe and eventually, in 1939, to the U.S.A. and Los Angeles, but doesn’t bury the reader under tons of biographical detail. Likewise in regards to his music, he talks about all his major works, but never gets too technical, just gives an easily understandable overview for a person with an average interest in Stravinsky’s works. The only unfortunate aspect of the book is that like most good books of this nature, it has convinced me to go out and purchase many more CDs, not only by Stravinsky, but also by too many of the other composers mentioned - which is only unfortunate because now my wallet is crying.

The back flap of the book lists many more books in this series than seem to be available. I wonder if new ones are still being released, or if the series is dead. I’d love to have the chance to read many of the books in this format that are listed there. Does anybody know? I have already ordered a couple more that have come out - and will probably be ordering even more soon. 9:08 PM >>> 0 comments

It’s almost always a good idea to follow up a difficult, trying read, with something quite the opposite. So naturally it seemed like a good idea to follow up last week’s James with P. G. Wodehouse’s comic novel, Love Among the Chickens. And it worked out nicely too. This was actually the first Wodehouse novel I’ve read. And it was also one of the first he published. Considering that was one hundred years ago, the book didn’t really read dated - it still felt fresh, even the jokes (which habitually don’t age well). The story centers around a writer who lets himself get dragged along by an old, disreputable friend, who claims to be trying to start his own chicken farm. Perhaps the writer just wants to get out of London and spend some time in the country thinking about his next book and maybe playing some golf. Of course the chicken situation turns into a disaster. Also the writer falls in love with the pretty neighbor girl, whose father unfortunately has some (valid) reasons to detest him. The plot is amusing, but it’s really the tone of the prose that brings the most pleasure. Clear, sharp and light, but never completely frivolous. The major characters are all also wonderfully realized. Even the blustering fool at the heart of the novel, Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge, ended up charming my socks off. 11:28 PM >>> 0 comments

In the middle of a busy day, I finally managed to make it out to LACMA for the Sundays Live concert for the first time. This is a series of chamber group concerts given at the museum, and broadcast live on a local classical radio station. These concerts have been going on since 1948. And they’re free. Tonight’s hour long performance was from The Lark Quartet. The program was fairly eclectic. They started with Bartok’s serious and fairly heavy String Quartet No. 1. Amazing music. But followed it up with five Gershwin songs arranged for string quartet. Kind of a hard switch from Bartok to show tunes, but I enjoyed them both (but obviously for very different reasons & on very different levels). To get even weirder, they followed this this us with Klap Ur Handz by Daniel Bernard Romain - supposedly an attempt to combine hip hop and classical music - in a piece dedicated to Rosa Parks! Actually, it was a fun piece, but I thought the quartet didn’t quite pull it off - perhaps they were a little too tired to successfully bring the funk. Since there were a few minutes left, they followed this up with one of William Bolcom’s songs - while it wasn’t exactly great - it did remind me that I really want to pick up that Naxos CD. I will go to more of these concerts though - next week it’s an all Mozart program - which obviously should be really good. 10:31 PM >>> 0 comments

Atlas #2 marks Dylan Horrocks welcome return to personal comics after four or five years working on the margins of the mainstream. It’s rather odd when there’s a five year gap between two serial pamphlet comics, but of course, Horrocks is a rather odd (and unique) cartoonist. Atlas seems to be a very humble, modest comic. Unpretentious. No fancy production values, just a nice looking thirty-two page black and white comic, for only $2.95 US. In today’s crowded scene of over-sized, over-produced and over-priced books - it feels almost anachronistic - even if it should be the norm. However, I will admit, that because the pages are often broken into only two panels, it does feel like it reads a bit quick - or perhaps I just wish there was more (especially after such a long pause).

The somewhat self contained first two-thirds, reads a bit like a fucked up scene from an Antonioni movie. In a scenic, rocky, coastal town - we follow a woman as she enters a man’s room. Their discussion is surprisingly (uncomfortably?) violent and angry (almost like that parody of Antonioni from Godard‘s Masculin féminin. The dialog in the speech balloons is written in a mysterious language (or at least one I don’t know), but translated into English in captions just underneath the balloons - sort of like subtitles. It emphasizes that foreign film feel (though I don’t want to keep referencing movies). Since we only get to see this one small scene it’s hard to draw any conclusions of what it adds up to (if anything), but it certainly succeeds in creating a mood - and making me want to see more.

The second, shorter story, that also looks to be continued in the next issue (hopefully we won’t have to wait another five years!), seems to be playing more in the autobiographical genre - dealing with a cartoonist working in mainstream comics, but having no love for ‘em, while at the same time, they’ve drained away his ability to do his own comics, and perhaps even worse, his pleasure in life itself. His only happiness seems to be found in staring at the screensavers on his computer. Generally, I’m not a fan of comics about comics, but Horrocks is one of the few cartoonists who can draw on these topics (and the majority of his personal work so far seems to be about comics!), while not being completely insufferable. Perhaps it helps that his drawing, while never particularly flashy, is almost always perfectly balanced, and extremely pleasurable to view. I know it’s going to sound weird - but I especially love the way he draws a night sky filled with stars. 12:26 AM >>> 1 comments

At first I found it extremely difficult to get into The Wings of the Dove. Originally published in 1902, the prose is so singular, and difficult - it seems as if Henry James was writing in a different era, in a different world, one much more distant than just a century ago. As I stuck to it though, I began to find my way into the text, and I began to get more out of the book, occasionally quite a lot - though occasionally I still continued to get a little lost - even right up to the conclusion. It’s a long, dense book, but surprisingly, not a lot actually happens. What plot there is, centers around a young, wealthy, beautiful American girl on tour in Europe and apparently slowly dying. Upon arriving in London she becomes involved with various classy, but somewhat desperate characters - who may be after her heart or may be after her money. And some of these characters may be after each other’s hearts or money. The bulk of the book is made up of these people’s convoluted mental maneuverings, as they manipulate each other and themselves - trying to accomplish who knows what. It’s the fact that everybody is so extremely self involved that does grate on one’s nerves the most. For every character, life isn’t about the world, but about how they move through it. This sort of overly mannered concern with appearances never sits particularly well with my own view of what’s important. In general, I found the sections of conversation and dialog most compelling, and readable, even though it’s often terrible evasive. Well, that’s where the poetry lives isn’t it - in the mystery? And that’s where I found myself drawn in. While never actually caring too much for any of the major characters, I did find myself caring about the world James seemed to create. All waiting and manipulation. Ornate sitting rooms in Venice! I wanted to move into this world. As is perhaps the case anytime you read a good long book over the course of a week - you do start to feel like you’re living that book, at least a little. Ultimately though, I still find myself wishing that more had actually happened over the course of The Wings of the Dove’s 700 pages - I mean, less namby-pamby psychological wrangling and more events - more fist fights maybe? 10:07 PM >>> 0 comments

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The Only Son, from 1936, is director Ozu Yasujiro’s first talkie - yes, in Japan they thankfully weren’t in such a rush to get out of the silent era (although unfortunately there are only one hundred or so silent Japanese films that haven’t been lost to time). Like a couple of other early Japanese sound films I’ve seen, in this one two characters also go to the cinema to see their first talking movies (and in this one, one of the characters dozes off in the theater!). Throughout, Ozu seems to delight in finally having sound to play with - the atmospheric sounds, whether silk on a factory loom or birds in the sky, play an important part in contributing to the film’s mood. Just imagine, after making dozens of films over ten years, suddenly having this new element to finally be able to use - seems like it must have been really exciting - especially for a thoughtful movie-maker like Ozu.

The story here has its light moments, but overall, I was surprised how spectacularly downbeat the tone remained, willing to wallow in the character’s disappointments like few other films I can recall. In the opening sequence, a poor, single mother gives in to her young son’s desire to continue his education, even though she doesn’t really have the finances to send him to high school. Skip to ten years later, and now he’s a grown man, moved to Tokyo. When his mother comes to visit though - she’s in for some surprises. First, he’s married and has a young son of his own - but more importantly for the story, despite the sacrifices, he has failed to make a financial success of his life in Tokyo - he’s just a poor night school teacher. I was a little disappointed how so much of the movie seemed to be predicated on the idea that material success is the most important goal in life. Later in the movie certain events seem to reveal to the characters that maybe there are worse things that can happen to a person than being poor, but even after this brief respite, the characters seem to revert back to their old views - disappointed in themselves or each other - in particular the mom/grandmother, disappointed in her son, who she feels she has sacrificed so much for, and she has - even giving up her own land and house and living in the factory dorms to send him enough money to get through his schooling. It’s funny how at the beginning of their reunion in Tokyo they’re all big forced smiles, and funny how quickly those smiles turn to recriminations and anger once they’ve got comfortable around each other and can actually be honest. Although the movie certainly has one thread that says it’s important that people look out for each other and help each other out, I thought the larger thread seemed to suggest, putting your faith in other people will only lead to disappointment - or perhaps the old stand-by, “hell is other people.”

Nonetheless, I found The Only Son to generally make for very moving viewing. Again, it’s a simply story told with Ozu’s uncommonly direct, but weirdly poetic approach. Beautiful framing - perhaps an even greater amount of almost abstract shots than usual - and perfect timing and editing to each of the scenes. The R3 Panorama DVD, while hardly perfect, is one of their better transfers. Although the print used shows a lot of damage, that’s to be expected in a Japanese film from the 30s. The sound also is occasionally muddy - again to be expected from an early talkie. For once though, the transfer image seems crisp and I didn’t notice any digital artifacts, which are all to common defects in so many of Panorama’s Ozu DVDs. 9:39 PM >>> 5 comments

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The Desert Rose is just the sixth book I’ve read by Larry McMurtry (he has written thirty or so!), but I’ve enjoyed them all so much - I’m surprised I haven’t yet read many more, or all of ‘em already. This time around the story is split between an aging Las Vegas showgirl, thirty-eight, but I guess that’s OLD in that profession, and her sixteen year old daughter. The mother has just gotten out of a sour relationship. The daughter is just getting into her first reallyserious one. The plot dodges around their relationships and colorful friendships and work situations. But what is most important is the excessively human atmosphere created by McMurtry. These are characters you want to read about. Characters you like being around, at least for the length of the book. There’s something about McMurtry’s books that always remind me of a certain period in my own life, seven or eight years long gone (time flies), but one I like to still think about. It’s all in the tone. There’s a weird sort of energy there... a running around, a gentle humor, an admission that things are never going to be perfect but still - always an effort to make the best of the cards you’ve been dealt. A way of laughing at your own weaknesses and mistakes. And his books (that I’ve read) are always fun, even when they’re sad. 10:01 PM >>> 1 comments

The Wild Bunch is a movie I can, and have, watched over and over again. When I first saw it at a revival screening at the Castro Theater in San Francisco in 1995, it became one of those rare movies that have literally changed my life. Or at the least, changed the way I thought about movies. Now I’m very happy to have the new R1 DVD release, available as part of the Sam Peckinpah’s Legendary Westerns box, or separately. The picture certainly seems better than I’ve ever seen it. The extras also look copious, though I’ve yet to watch any of them. What really matters is always the movie. The Wild Bunch remains one of the last great westerns. A rambling picture, that’s not afraid to take the time to breathe and explore (not unlike Terrence Malick’s great films), not afraid to play with the poetry of its imagery as well - even when some of that poetry is delivered out of the barrel of a gun. Dialog is often delivered like an explosion. The comedy is lusty and perhaps more manly than in any other motion picture (I’ve seen so far), while still ringing true. Ultimately it’s a movie that embraces the chaos of life. Its dark parable seems more relevant than ever (just turn on the news). 11:52 PM >>> 0 comments

I recently realized it had been a shamefully long time since I’d gone out to hear any live music - so tonight I was finally able to put an end to my streak by catching a really good concert by the Parisii Quartet at LACMA. Not surprisingly, the highlights of the night were Ligeti’s String Quartet No. 2 and especially Steve Reich’s Different Trains - a piece I’m very familiar with due to the excellent Kronos Quartet recording - which, over the years, I’ve listened to more times than I could reasonably count. To hear Different Trains preformed live though, added a whole new level - and not just because it was so much easier to see how the players interacted with the pre-recorded tracks. Live, the piece seemed to be so much more dense and really overwhelming. Anyway - it’s just good to hear music in a concert hall - where your mind can focus on the sounds and avoid easy distractions. As much as I love listening to CDs, I realize must continue to make more of an effort to go out to concerts too - as that’s the best way to really hear music - and it’s fun too. 11:58 PM >>> 0 comments

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She, H. Rider Haggard’s adventure novel from 1887 is the worst book I can remember reading every last page of in a hell of a long time. Sometimes it’s so bad that it seems good, other times passages grow more than a little tiresome - especially when my mind started to wander to all the other books I‘d probably rather be reading. It’s main problem is the writing, which is overdone and sloppy at the same time. Haggard also occasionally seems to get lost in his own tale, contradicting things he has written before, and mixing up his metaphors (unconsciously?). Nonetheless, the story holds some charm, mainly in its sheer ridiculousness. The plot involves a couple of well educated Englishmen off to Africa to track down a legend. Not surprisingly, they end up meeting a lost tribe of cannibalistic savages and their two-thousand year old Queen. They also manage to get into and out of plenty of tight spots. Apparently the book was tremendously popular when it was originally published. Aspects of its plot certainly seem to have been borrowed by the adventure films of the 20th century, including the Indiana Jones franchise. 11:49 PM >>> 0 comments