Just recently two modern filmmakers, Ingmar Bergman and Michaelangelo Antonioni, died. Last year between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Robert Altman died. These are three filmmakers that had a staggering output of films, I don't know the actual numbers of their films but put together it would be close to a hundred. Altman has had the most influence on me as a writer/filmmaker/film lover. His films always do the right thing for me. I know plenty of people who hate his movies. They say that they are to muddled or busy or that the camera work is too messy. I don't believe them. I can't believe that they are bad movies because his characters are so well made and real. It is not a coincidence that he made "Short Cuts" from Raymond Carver's stories, they are both interested in the "in between" moments, the words that are said, the actions done, that ruin lives or make lives. Altman is an original, no one makes movies like him, no one has made the kind of ensemble films that he has and then make "Secret Honor" or "3 Women". He is one of my favorites.
Bergman is a filmmaker that I can only take in doses, unless that dose is "Fanny & Alexander" which is perfect. I haven't seen enough of his films, but "Cries & Whispers" is perfect also. It is one of the most painful films I've ever seen. the choice of shots is perfect and the acting is so real it's unbelievable. I guess I've seen around six of his films (a three pack which caused an anxiety attack), and that is not enough. My friends are always bragging about what Bergman they've seen, and I need to catch up.
Antonioni is amazing. He let's his films breathe, which is long for "they're slow". He let's takes go on forever, or a person to actually respond without hard cuts. Once again I haven't seen enough of his films, but "L'Avventura" is one of my favorites. "Blow Up", if only for the concert scene with the Byrds, is as cool as it gets.
Here's a list of heroes who aren't dead yet, but could be very close:
1. Jack Nicholson
2. Jean-Luc Godard
3. Albert Maysles
These are three guys that I love. Three people that are a huge influence on me. Altman, Antonioni, and Bergman made me sad when they passed, I've had my time with each, but with all of these people they are leaving behind their work. That's what everyone wants, whether you love or hate what these guys do, it will always be around to confront you or comfort you. And I will always be sad about Chris Farley, who might have influenced me more than anyone, no joke, I love that guy.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Ricky the Dragon Steamboat and my Lost Youth.
This isn't really about Ricky the Dragon, but it does have to do with wrestling and my childhood. Some kids were WWF and others WCW. I was WCW. I would wake up every Saturday morning around 6am, or my father would wake me up so I could watch the early edition of WCW, I also watched the 6:30pm on Saturday, and the 8pm on Sunday. Why I was a wrestling fanatic early on, I don't know, because I hated it once I got into middle school and went "grunge". In 1990, all I thought about were GI Joes, the Stinger splash, the figure four leg lock, and what a hit to the solar plexus (sp?) was.
The other day I decided to check youtube for some old school wrestling, of course it was there, and the pinnacle of my wrestling love was there in all it's glory. Terry Funk and the Great Muta whipping the Nature Boy Ric Flair. I hated Ric Flair, I absolutely hated the guy. When Terry Funk injured Flair's neck on the announcer's fold out table I jumped for joy, not because of Terry Funk, that guy was a redneck and was right up there with my disdain for the Four Horsemen (Arn Anderson was a balding wimp.), but because Ric Flair got what was coming to him.
Anyway, back to Flair getting stomped. So the Great Muta had spit Kool-Aid in Flair's face and he Funk were having a good roundabout punch fest with the blonde, and then.....and then....who appears? At first, all you see are the pink tights with the scorpion, and that's all it takes. "It's Sting!" "The Stinger's coming to the ring!" The announcers are screaming, I'm standing in my living room in awe with my orange Nerf sponge basketball ready for a dunk on the sliding glass door squeezed as tight as it would go. Sidenote: Sting and Flair were incredible rivals back in the day. Is Sting really gonna help him? Is this really happening?
Sting runs into the ring and pounds the Great Muta and Terry Funk with Flair. This is it, my respect for Ric Flair, and another white boy, Larry Bird, go through the roof. If Sting can respect Flair, then I can respect the Bird. So, the match ends with Sting and Flair with their arms raised triumphant, collaborators and buddies who a few weeks later will take those two on again in a cage match (the greatest of all wrestling ploys other than the Royal Rumble), with two rings, not one, but two in a cage. I don't think their friendship lasted long because Flair, moron, turned on the Stinger. So, this takes us to Six Flags over Georgia.
My cousin, Kyle, and I and my dad were waiting in line for the Great Gasp when two large Samoans walk up. Yep, it was the Samoan Swat team, one of our favorites, with their kids. And the first thing out of Kyle's mouth is, "Is wrestling fake?" This is like "is Santa Claus real?" for a wishful ten year old. And one of the Samoans replies, to an eleven year old, "If I wanted to knock you out, I could do it." Kyle turns to my dad and goes, "See, I told you it wasn't fake." Dad replies with nervous laughter.
I always believed wrestling was real, I never doubted it, until I bought ARMY combat boots, steel toed, at P & M in Athens, and started listening to Nirvana (overrated). I've had those boots since I was 13, I threw them out the other day with other things that I didn't need because I'm trying to lighten my moving load. I went out to the dumpster the next day, and someone had gone through all the crap I threw out, and there were my boots, that I had worn to every concert from age 15 to 22, lying on the ground. So, I picked them up, looked at them again and threw back in the trash. I felt a little bad about throwing them out, but then I realized how stupid it was to put too much meaning into a piece of clothing, and to carry these shoes that don't really fit anymore around with me. What, was I gonna get them bronzed? Thinking about what things: cd's, clothes, old GI Joe packages I've saved, mean to me, are nothing compared to the fond memories I have of my childhood, and how I will never be the same optimistic, free wheeling, naive kid that I was. I think a lot about how I was eighteen years ago, it s a very romantic view, and I hope that the feeling of those memories will take sometime again soon. There are fleeting starry eyed moments when you are an adult, and when they hit, you know, because your throat gets tight, your eyes well up, and you get the feeling that you may never experience that again.
The other day I decided to check youtube for some old school wrestling, of course it was there, and the pinnacle of my wrestling love was there in all it's glory. Terry Funk and the Great Muta whipping the Nature Boy Ric Flair. I hated Ric Flair, I absolutely hated the guy. When Terry Funk injured Flair's neck on the announcer's fold out table I jumped for joy, not because of Terry Funk, that guy was a redneck and was right up there with my disdain for the Four Horsemen (Arn Anderson was a balding wimp.), but because Ric Flair got what was coming to him.
Anyway, back to Flair getting stomped. So the Great Muta had spit Kool-Aid in Flair's face and he Funk were having a good roundabout punch fest with the blonde, and then.....and then....who appears? At first, all you see are the pink tights with the scorpion, and that's all it takes. "It's Sting!" "The Stinger's coming to the ring!" The announcers are screaming, I'm standing in my living room in awe with my orange Nerf sponge basketball ready for a dunk on the sliding glass door squeezed as tight as it would go. Sidenote: Sting and Flair were incredible rivals back in the day. Is Sting really gonna help him? Is this really happening?
Sting runs into the ring and pounds the Great Muta and Terry Funk with Flair. This is it, my respect for Ric Flair, and another white boy, Larry Bird, go through the roof. If Sting can respect Flair, then I can respect the Bird. So, the match ends with Sting and Flair with their arms raised triumphant, collaborators and buddies who a few weeks later will take those two on again in a cage match (the greatest of all wrestling ploys other than the Royal Rumble), with two rings, not one, but two in a cage. I don't think their friendship lasted long because Flair, moron, turned on the Stinger. So, this takes us to Six Flags over Georgia.
My cousin, Kyle, and I and my dad were waiting in line for the Great Gasp when two large Samoans walk up. Yep, it was the Samoan Swat team, one of our favorites, with their kids. And the first thing out of Kyle's mouth is, "Is wrestling fake?" This is like "is Santa Claus real?" for a wishful ten year old. And one of the Samoans replies, to an eleven year old, "If I wanted to knock you out, I could do it." Kyle turns to my dad and goes, "See, I told you it wasn't fake." Dad replies with nervous laughter.
I always believed wrestling was real, I never doubted it, until I bought ARMY combat boots, steel toed, at P & M in Athens, and started listening to Nirvana (overrated). I've had those boots since I was 13, I threw them out the other day with other things that I didn't need because I'm trying to lighten my moving load. I went out to the dumpster the next day, and someone had gone through all the crap I threw out, and there were my boots, that I had worn to every concert from age 15 to 22, lying on the ground. So, I picked them up, looked at them again and threw back in the trash. I felt a little bad about throwing them out, but then I realized how stupid it was to put too much meaning into a piece of clothing, and to carry these shoes that don't really fit anymore around with me. What, was I gonna get them bronzed? Thinking about what things: cd's, clothes, old GI Joe packages I've saved, mean to me, are nothing compared to the fond memories I have of my childhood, and how I will never be the same optimistic, free wheeling, naive kid that I was. I think a lot about how I was eighteen years ago, it s a very romantic view, and I hope that the feeling of those memories will take sometime again soon. There are fleeting starry eyed moments when you are an adult, and when they hit, you know, because your throat gets tight, your eyes well up, and you get the feeling that you may never experience that again.
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