FrancisPage

Reel To Reel: War Horse

2012-01-23T17:47:00.000-07:00

Riding off to war.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: Jeremy Irvine, Emily Watson
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: World War I violence

Do horses know how to act? Do they even know they're in a movie? I'm not sure, but the equine stars of War Horse certainly know how to tug at our emotions, just as in Black Beauty and The Black Stallion. Yet director Steven Spielberg clearly wants to add to his roster of epic war pictures, which includes Empire Of The Sun, Shindler's List, Saving Private Ryan, and unfortunately, 1941. So we get a picture that's never completely about either war or a horse but a mixed mash-up of both, incorporating several side stories into the main narrative.

The film parachutes us into Ireland just before World War I, green and beautiful. An alcoholic Irish farmer, Ted Naracott (Peter Mullan), pays out the nose for a thoroughbred horse instead of a work animal. His wife Rose (Watson) despairs, knowing the old fool is putting the family farm on the line. Both Ted and his son Albert (Irvine) sense some sort of greatness in the animal that will be their deliverance. Albert is a natural-born horse whisperer. He knows exactly what to say to his new equine friend Joey (more than a dozen horses played the role), and he's not above putting a collar around his neck to show Joey how it's done. The two of them share a deep resolve and strength. A sequence where Albert and Joey must plow a rocky field to save the farm has a sports-film quality to it, two underdogs banding together to achieve the impossible.

All of Joey's and Albert's work are not enough to keep Ted's finances above water, so the reluctant father sells the horse to the British army as troops march out of town for the Great War. Albert longs to go with Joey, but his age keeps him from enlisting, so an officer pledges Joey will receive great care until horse and rider can be together again. So begins a picaresque journey that takes us from Ireland to France and through the trench-warfare, horror and disillusionment of WWI with a horse who just happens to be along for the ride -- or two horses, actually. Joey finds a companion after shipping off for the front, and the two of them bond like war buddies.

A couple of other war movies entered my mind as this film unspooled. An early battle scene reminded me of the climatic assault in Gods And Generals, and a sequence where soldiers on opposite sides must work together to rescue Joey recalls Joyeux Noel. I'm sure many of you will also make comparisons to National Velvet.

I liked War Horse, but I felt the film needed focus. A recent opinion column in the Los Angeles Times theorized the dearth of WWI movies is due to the war's moral ambiguity, its lack of clearly defined good and bad guys which doesn't make good commercial cinema. Spielberg tries introducing some of that into War Horse, particularly in a subplot involving two German deserters. This is where it detours from Joey's perspective to try to include some larger truths of WWI, and that's where it falters. Black Beauty took us through a journey of several owners, but at least the title character narrated his own story. War Horse is also adapted from a novel and a stage play, but I'm not familiar with the source material to tell you whether the flaws originated there. What isn't flawed is Spielberg's touch for creating emotional bonds and characters we care about, and that ultimately redeems the movie.

Reel To Reel: The Artist

2012-01-15T20:50:00.002-07:00

Silence is golden.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: Jean Dujardin, Bérénice Bejo, John Goodman, James Cromwell
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: One very brief crude gesture and some potentially disturbing images

It's hard to believe people in the film industry considered "talkies" a passing fad when they arrived in the late 1920's. Motion pictures were works of art, and like their still counterparts, why would anybody on earth want to hear them speak? Oh, but they did. The Artist is a loving and painful tribute to that turning point in movie history where art gave way to innovation and demand.

George Valentin (Dujardin) -- named so we will conjure up the memory of Rudolph Valentino -- is the king of the silent movie swashbucklers in 1927. With the help of his little dog Uggie, he's invincible on the screen and adored off of it, but his home life is suffering. His wife is unhappy with her walk-on role in the marriage, especially when she sees George on the front page of Variety getting a kiss from a mystery girl.

That girl, Peppy Miller (Bejo), idolizes Valentin to the point of sneaking into his dressing room while playing an extra. She shares a dance with him in a wordless sequence of scenes that depicts their blossoming relationship more economically than a Hallmark greeting card. George gives her a valuable piece of advice along with a beauty mark to her face. Miller shoots up the credit list, from extra to star. Is it that fake mole, or is it something else, like hearing her presumably golden voice?

Valentin's career heads in the opposite direction. His studio scraps silent films at the behest of a cigar-smoking topper (Goodman) who can see the future and it talks. George, one of those people who consider silent film an art, sets out to save his career and his own beloved medium while Peppy looks to save George from ruin.

The Artist is faithful to silent films in so many ways, leading off with title and cast cards in addition to the obligatory dialogue cards. It has so much love for its inspiration, we don't need much convincing to see why Valentin considers a talking film noise pollution. A key scene turns the most mundane of sounds into obnoxious intrusions, interrupting a symphony of music and lighted images.

Silent films forced filmmakers to pay more attention to nuance and gestures, and director Michel Hazanavicius doesn't miss a beat. Neither does Ludovic Bource, who composed the film's soundtrack with all the intensity and emotional pull of original silent films, which were designed to play with your emotions.

I enjoyed the world of The Artist. So many films talk so much and say so little. Here's a film that talks little and speaks volumes.

Reel To Reel: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

2012-01-08T19:09:00.000-07:00

It's all in your head.

Going Rate: Worth matinee price
Starring: Gary Oldman, Colin Firth
Rated: R
Red Flags: Some brief language, two violent scenes, and one graphic sex scene shown from a distance

"Watching this movie was like watching paint dry," observed my Queen Mother as we walked out of the theater. But my Royal Father liked it. Your humble servant had mixed feelings. This a movie that deserves a split rating, like grading a figure skating performance: one rating for technical merit, another for artistic impression. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is a superbly made movie about its subject matter. But as such, it's disappointing to audiences fed four decades of James Bond. As a cloak and dagger thriller, it's more cloak than dagger.

The film takes place in 1973, in a slightly warmer Cold War, and British Intelligence is trying to find a Soviet mole high in "the Circus," as spooks call it. An operation to learn the double agent's identity ends bloodily in Budapest, and when that happens, a head has to roll at the top. Mr. Smiley (Oldman) is forced out of the Circus, consigned to a life of mediocre post-spy existance. But the mole is still there.

Smiley's former superiors ask him to conduct an under-the-wire investigation to root out the mole. This is the point where a conventional spy movie would be submersing us in danger and beautiful women at exotic locations. Instead, it takes on more of the feel of a detective novel. We see many shots of Smiley walking and carrying a satchel, walking some more, walking again, and asking a few choice questions of a few spook sources.

We learn this mole may or may not have something to do with a top-secret information clearinghouse designed to milk a particular Soviet source who's thought to be providing a gusher of valuable intelligence -- or is it just well-phrased garbage?

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy ia a psychological thriller in the purest sense of the word, where the action takes place in your brain as you process its endless stream of information and clues trying to figure out what's going on. And yet this film still feels bloated, like something could still be trimmed. No doubt that's due to the involvement of John Le Carre, who serves one of the producers on this adaptation of his novel. You will also hear a lot of praise for Oldman's performance, but it's hard for me to award a laurel to a performance which has only one mode.

I really enjoyed this film's treatment of the 1970's world of intelligence gathering, where people still hacked away at Olympia typewriters and teletypes and used land-line dial phones. Intelligence workers will tell you their jobs are mostly analytical and not exciting. In real life, yes, but most moviegoers will expect something more.

I Resolve To Make More Predictions

2012-01-05T12:50:00.000-07:00

I originally made the following post in response to Tom Prezelski's tounge-in-cheek look at the year to come on TucsonSentinel.com. And this time, I will take full responsibility for these musings and not lay them onto the staff of The Lightning Round.

* In effort to dispel Tucson’s business-unfriendly image, Mayor Jonathan Rothschild proposes TCC be turned into Arizona’s largest indoor swap meet.

* Unable to come up with congressional and legislative districts to satisfy Arizona Republican demands that every last Democrat be wiped off the map, independent redistricting commitee throws up its hands and outsources work to Peggy from USA Prime Credit.

* Occupy movement, left with no place to occupy, moves into the Tucson Exposition Center. Barely anyone notices.

* Tucson Sports Authority flirts with idea of luring pro curling tournament to town. When that idea fails, it turns its attention to luring Linda Ronstadt back.

* Pirates take over whatever is playing on 92.9 FM, demanding Tucson get a “real” oldies station like the one that once occupied that frequency.

* Russell Pearce mentioned as possible new judge on “American Idol.”

* State GOP left scratching its collective noggins when Clap The Wonder Seal wins Arizona’s Presidential Preference Election.

* Massive haboob hits Tucson for a change. Phonecians laugh. Right-wingers complain about the use of the word “haboob” because it comes from that “durn terror-istic lang-gu-age.”

* Jim Click announces he’s entering the commercial space business. “Hi Folks! Now’s a better time than ever to go into orbit!”

* Monsoon downpour washes away grandstand at Rillito Downs and deposits it in Marana. Debate rages over whether it’s some sort of celestial suggestion.

* Southern Arizona’s state legislative contingent introduces bills regulating the way Phoenix holds elections, renews its downtown and educates its children. When Phoenix-area lawmakers complain, the local contingent presents a rousing rendition of Ugly Kid Joe’s “I Hate Everything About You” on the House floor.

* Fatburger, Humongoburger, Superburger, Wonderburger, Cardiacburger and three other fast-food chains move into town and are greeted with lines out the door from day one.

* As the Wildcat football team struggles to come around, Arizona fans demand the U of A appoint a man as coach who is guaranteed to finally get the team to the Rose Bowl: Lute Olsen.

Happy New Year!

Finally, The Justification I've Been Waiting For

2012-01-01T20:15:00.002-07:00

For the last three years, I've dressed up in my full kilt on New Years' Eve, explaining it as the most festive outfits I have on one of the year's most festive occasions.

But finally, I realized I have a better excuse: "Auld Lang Syne," which so many of us croon at the stroke of high midnight, was penned by Robert Burns -- a Scotsman! Hopefully I can remember this for next New Years' Eve.

As for the one that just happened, it found your humble servant and his family in San Diego's Gaslamp District enjoying dinner at The Field and wandering aimlessly through the revel that comprises the end-of-year frivolity. As usual, my kilt is longer than most of the skirts I see on the ladies.

Of course, the kilt got many looks, and many mentions. Of note are two: one from a proud Basque man who was eager to remind me a Scottish dance step comes from his people.

The other thought I was a pirate. Yes, a pirate. I wasn't even wearing my tricorn, fercryinoutloud.

Reel To Reel: Sherlock Holmes: A Game Of Shadows

2011-12-27T22:27:00.002-07:00

Now the real mystery begins.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: Robert Downey Jr., Jude Law
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Victorian-flavored martial arts violence, gunplay and bawdiness

I will admit to you quite sheepishly that I've only read a couple of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories: "The Three Garridebs" and "The Red-Headed League." So I am relying on my Royal Father's considerable Holmes knowledge base when I tell you the sequel to the 2009 hit mashes up three Holmes stories, including one that Doyle hoped would be his last.

It also gets back to basics. Gone from this edition are the steampunk influences that made the first film trendy but abnormal. However, director Guy Ritchie doesn't mess with a winning formula. It still holds on to the characterization of Holmes as a skilled fighter and while adding his (Downey) greatest arch-nemesis, the sinister Professor Moriarty (Jared Harris), a criminal genius who really is a genius.

As the picture opens, France and Germany are at each other's throats in the late 1800's, and the rest of Europe could be pulled in if Moriarty's fiendish plot plays out. Holmes is the thorn in his side, but simply killing him is too easy... or too tough depending on your perspective. The two meet in a pre-game parlay like the commanders of two colonial armies taking the battlefield. "Do you want to play this game?" Moriarty asks of Holmes. Of course he does, especially after finding what the doctor did to his love interest.

The entire film is a gigantic, violent game of chess with moves and counter-moves, each man trying to outsmart the other. Caught in the middle is Holmes' beleaguered best friend Dr. Watson (Law), who's just gotten married but has to put his honeymoon on hold to follow Holmes on a case that has ended up endangering both their lives. Naturally, the climatic scene throws in an actual game of chess.

A Game Of Shadows forces you to pay attention to all the details, because all those details are going to come back in the next scene, or some scene down the reel. Nothing gets by Holmes, who admits to us, "I see everything," while confiding it is both curse and blessing.

I have to admit I was drawn in by the lush costuming of this picture, which will draw an easy Oscar nomination. And naturally, I'm a sucker for a handsomely costumed ball scene, which this picture delivers right down to the servants in the breeches. Even if the film isn't exactly true to Doyle's dialogue and storylines of the Victorian era, it certainly delivers the style.

Reel To Reel: Hugo

2011-12-25T11:00:00.000-07:00

Time for some movie magic.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission in 3D
Starring: Ben Kingsley, Sacha Baron Cohen, Jude Law
Rated: PG (but could pass for a G)
Red Flags: Some very mild references to marital infidelity

Why on earth would the man who directed Taxi Driver, GoodFellas, Casino, Gangs Of New York, and Mean Streets want to take on an imaginative 3D family film? Because, silly, Martin Scorsese is one of the greats. And great directors know great movies. This one is a homage to another great: Georges Méliès, a magician who saw film as a new medium for illusion and created the industry that powers so many of today's movies -- special effects.

To summarize the film's plot would rob you of its storybook qualities. Indeed, the entire film has a lovingly storybook vision, as it follows the young boy Hugo (Asa Butterfield) through the inner workings of a train station in 1931 Paris as he keeps the various clocks wound and oiled while dodging the Station Inspector (Cohen). I can tell you that Hugo is hoping to complete a job his father started, and in doing so, he will have a brush with the aforementioned magician. Joining him in his adventure is Georges' goddaughter Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz), who can't understand why she's not allowed to see movies.

The 3D effects are like seasoning on a fine meal. Steam from the railway station leaks onto the screen and bathes you in Hugo's world. The film is in absolute adoration for post-WWI France and the French people, and Scorsese goes to great lengths to make sure you enjoy every bite. Butterfield turns in a solid performance as Hugo, but what struck me the most was his piercing eyes, which are enhanced by the 3D effect. Cohen's comic station inspector has nuance and wit. He should be playing Inspector Clouseau, not Steve Martin if somebody decides to remake another Pink Panther movie. And what can I say about Ben Kingsley, except that I'm glad he's still making movies.

See Hugo in a theater, while you still can. Its magic will loose potency when it comes to Blu-Ray, even if you have a gigantic 3D capable big screen. Some movies are meant to be movies, and Méliès might very well agree.

Reel To Reel: Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

2011-12-18T17:18:00.001-07:00

Impossible mission? Not in the movies, no.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: Tom Cruise, Paula Patton, Simon Pegg, Jeremy Renner
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Action violence, some mild sexuality and mild language

The fourth installment of the Mission Impossible film series may be the best so far. It's still over the top, but it's executed in a way that doesn't feel over the top. Along the way it finds a sense of dark humor, an okay-are-we-really-going-to-have-to-do-this vibe.

Ethan Hunt (Cruise) is back and still taking more bodily punishment than Wile E. Coyote on a bad day. His support team of the beauty, Jane (Patton) and the brains, Benji (Pegg), are with him busting him out of a Russian Gulag and then infiltrating the Kremlin to recover stolen nuclear secrets -- all in less than 24 hours. Now complain to me once more about all the Christmas shopping you have left to do.

The Impossible Missions Force doesn't always get away clean. This time, they end up fingered for a terrorist bombing at the Kremlin, but it's actually the work of a nuclear madman named Cobalt, who wants to detonate a nuke as part of a scheme to build some sort of new world order. After the Kremlin incident, the President disavows the IMF, which is just a diplomatic way of saying, "You're on your own, kids, until this stuff blows over."

Really, though, like Ethan and company need official permission to do anything. In fact, they pick up Brandt (Renner), a government analyst who fights pretty darn well for a desk jockey. With his skills, Jane's deadly charm and Benji's computer hacking skills, you've got just enough team to save the world.

Ethan still does most of the grunt work, including climbing up the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, the world's tallest building. If CGI is used in this scene, it's the best digital compositing I've ever seen -- or it's real. If that isn't enough, he also has to outmaneuvering an automated parking garage in India and run down a baddie in a familiar-looking sand storm. I kept waiting for the audience to yell out, "Haboob!"

Ghost Protocol is a summer blockbuster on winter vacation. It doesn't expect us to suspend a lot of disbelief, leading to many moments when you think, "Wow, this is really dangerous." Simon Pegg's character is nice touch to the film, adding some needed lighter moments. I heard one young lady telling her friends on the way out of the auditorium, "This is the best of the four." I think she's right.

Francis At 40 -- You've Come A Long Way, Baby!

2011-12-14T00:01:00.053-07:00

Lessons, ponderings and observations from the first four decades:

Experience doesn't necessarily equal wisdom. I'm still learning on the job.

Substitutions come with pitfalls. Don't try using dishwashing liquid when you run out of Cascade.

When you move up in your job, or in life, everything should move up. I passed on job offers from Wichita, Lexington and Ft. Meyers because they couldn't cut it.

Some people would rather live in their own world than face the truth -- too many examples to list.

I have to accept the limitations of my body. It took only one Scottish dance to trash my arm, and Ukrainian folk dancers can do things that would break my neck.

GOD answers prayers in ways people don't expect. And often that answer is "no."

Contentment prevents many problems.

I can wear a tricorn hat in my full Revolutionary War uniform and people will still call me a pirate.

I can serve GOD by serving others.

Passion is wonderful, as long as you're passionate about the right things. I still can't believe the fanaticism surrounding my appearance on The Price Is Right.

Shoveling snow like you're fighting a war is a sure way to end up in the Emergency Room.

I don't need to drink alcohol. I don't want to drink alcohol. GOD did not create me as a drinking person.

If peanut oil comes from peanuts, and olive oil comes from olives, I hate to think about where baby oil comes from.

I can only remember 20 percent of what I learned in college. Glad I had a scholarship.

If I had my current interest in history back when I was 16, I would have gone to the prom dressed in a 1740's coat, powdered wig, white stockings and knee breeches. I kid you not. What would they do -- throw me out for being too elegant?

GOD gives us a compass, not a road map. All of us are free to follow our joys as long as we trust HIS guidance.

If I'm not supposed to eat the paste in Kindergarten, why did they make it so tasty?

If I can walk, I can dance.

Show me an old Radio Shack TRS-80 system, and I'll show you one slobbering nerd.

The evil genius who can manipulate the world's testosterone will be the one to rule them all.

A dog knows more than I would like to admit.

First you find your MASTER. Then you find your mission. Then you find your mate.

Across the infinite universe, much more is unknown than known, more undiscovered than visioned... but when the aliens invade this planet, they'll eat the fat ones first.

Reel To Reel: The Muppets

2011-11-25T21:20:00.001-07:00

It's time to raise the curtain... again.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission for Muppet fans
Starring: Jason Segel, Amy Adams, Chris Cooper plus oodles of cameos
Rated: PG (but really should be a G)
Red Flags: Two very mild adult jokes, one of which is referenced below

I don't think Muppet founder Jim Henson would've gone for Fozzie Bear showing off, to put it kindly, flatulent shoes. But he would have loved the rest of this heartfelt reunion and tribute film to his puppet empire starring Jason Segel, who co-wrote it for Muppet fans everywhere. It is a family film, not so much for the kids, but for the adults who invited the fuzzy-foamy characters to come into their living rooms on "The Muppet Show" every week and who begged to go see their first three movies.

Segal is Gary, a Muppet fan with a brother named Walter, who's an even bigger fan. Walter is also a Muppet himself, a fact conveniently overlooked until the proper plot point is achieved. I could make an interesting argument here that Walter is actually Gary's outward projection of his inner child, but family movies are not supposed to be that deep. Gary's in love with Mary (Adams), a school teacher who is still waiting for Gary to pop the question -- if Guy Smiley or Prince Charming doesn't come along and pop it first. All of them live in Smalltown, an idyllic community which should come with a disclaimer below the welcome sign: "Residents are prone to outbursts of song and dance."

Gary, Mary and Walter take a trip to Los Angeles, which includes a stop at the Muppet Studios. When they get there, the place is run down and shuttered. The Muppets themselves don't even work there anymore. Worse, Walter overhears corporate robber baron Tex Richman (Cooper) plotting to raze the studio and drill for oil beneath it unless the Muppets can raise $10 million to buy it back under a clause in their standard "Rich And Famous Contract," one of the film's several enlightened references to the original Muppet Movie.

Walter and his human pals track down Kermit the Frog to warn him and persuade the Muppet gang to do one more gig. In sequences reminiscent of The Blues Brothers, Kermit and company track down the gang who have split up and taken straight jobs, more or less. Fozzie is working a dead-end show at a Reno casino. Animal is in an anger management program (alongside Jack Black, to boot). Gonzo is a plumbing company executive. Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem are playing in the subways. Only Miss Piggy has vaulted upward, to editor of Vogue. We're still not sure if Kermit and Piggy are married, separated or in one of those it's-complicated relationships, but they still have plenty of romantic tension between them as the old gang hastily puts together what could be their last show.

The Muppets overflows with love and respect for Kermit and company's fans. It does not try to upgrade its characters to the CGI age: we continue to see them mostly from the waist up, reminding us that there are still puppeteers below them, operating their hands and mouths and lending the voices. Several of those voices are more than a touch different due to changes in the cast of performers over the years, and sadly, the death of Jim Henson. After Henson's passing, Rowlf the Dog dropped out of sight; Henson provided his voice and part of his hand work. I was glad to see him back in this film, and he's still a whiz on the piano.

Many, many Muppet characters also return, if only for a couple of silent scenes, including Uncle Deadly. To my knowledge, he only appeared in one episode of the TV series, alongside Vincent Price. Speaking of guest star spots, The Muppets honors that tradition faithfully. In addition to Black, the film's cameos include Mickey Rooney, Whoopi Goldberg and... James Carville? Charles Grodin is a notable omission. His appearance was planned but omitted due to either schedule or production issues.

Young children aren't going to have the same admiration for this film as their parents. That's all right. It wasn't made for them. They may still appreciate it though, in all its fun, fuzzy innocence. Please, Disney, do us a favor. Find a way to bring "The Muppet Show" back to television and give us a show we can truly enjoy with the kids.

(The PG rating on this film is overstated. Save for two mildly crude jokes that are pretty tame in the universe of today's films, this film deserves to be a G.)

Reel To Reel: J. Edgar

2011-11-11T23:32:00.000-07:00

Guns, guts, and Mommy Dearest.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: Leonardo DiCaprio, Naomi Watts, Armie Hammer, Josh Lucas, Judi Dench
Rated: R (but really should be a PG-13)
Red Flags: One short scene of brief strong language, two mild homosexual kisses

J. Edgar Hoover built the Federal Bureau of Investigation into a powerfully innovative crime-fighting agency, one that would do his own personal bidding, and yet this film portrays him as cornered by a long-rumored homosexuality and his relationship with his mother. This irony is the heart of J. Edgar, a Clint Eastwood-directed period piece that's a shoo-in for at least a couple of Oscar nominations.

Make-up should be one of them, as we see alternating images of Leonardo DiCaprio playing Hoover as a young Justice Department agent while the older, grizzled Hoover dictates his glory days for a book. As he did in The Aviator and Shutter Island, DiCaprio handles period roles and historical heavyweights with precision and ease. His Hoover obsesses over radicals and communist threats to America underneath every rock, and he laments that his Justice colleagues don't seem to understand it. He says people forget "the bombs," what we would call terrorist attacks by Bolsheviks in the early 1900's, before the word "terrorist" entered our lexicon. He finds evidence of subversion in the White House and the civil rights movement. One subplot involves Hoover wiretapping the hotel room of Martin Luther King Junior.

Information is Hoover's weapon of choice, as he ruthlessly compiles secret files on opponents and dissidents to gather information for leverage while pushing the FBI to develop groundbreaking techniques in forensic analysis. It is hard to imagine a time when police didn't check for fingerprints, let alone DNA, but it's even harder to imagine how sloppily authorities would treat a crime scene. Hoover uses the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby as his proving grounds, the crime of the century that became the trial of the century, to show how criminals couldn't beat science.

Hoover's personal life is less than triumphant. He hires underqualified agent Clyde Tolson (Hammer), who turns into his chief deputy and lover, a relationship he conducts with strategic secrecy to keep it from ruining him. His secretary Helen Gandy is his right-hand woman, keeping his schedule running and his personal files hidden. And then there's Mother: Annie Hoover (Dench) is not an overbearing figure, but she is the only woman Hoover can relate to. No doubt about it, J. Edgar is a mama's boy.

J. Edgar can drag at points, but overall, Clint Eastwood keeps the story moving while understanding we need additional insight in order to appreciate the complexities and ironies surrounding a man who served six presidents. Dustin Lance Black, who also wrote the biopic Milk, handles Hoover's suspected homosexuality in a discreet manner that one could argue, as former FBI man W. Mark Felt did, that they simply were engaging in brotherly love.

The film does not break new ground as much as it lets us see the world from Hoover's perspective, that of a dedicated public servant who lives and breathes crimefighting and will stop at nothing to keep Americans safe.

Reel To Reel: Tower Heist

2011-11-11T22:25:00.001-07:00

When you don't have Ocean's 11, four or five might work.

Going Rate: Worth matinee price
Starring: Ben Stiller, Eddie Murphy, Casey Affleck, Alan Alda, Matthew Broderick
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Language (mainly Murphy's dirty mouth), some sexual references

Tower Heist wants to be the Ocean's 11 of the Occupy Wall Street age, seizing upon our low opinions of banks, securities firms, and anybody stinking rich. It's also designed to be a comeback vehicle for Eddie Murphy, who has seen his career circle the drain ever since he taking up family-friendly movies like Haunted Mansion, Daddy Day Care, and space gobbler The Adventures of Pluto Nash. Neither concept works entirely, but director Brett Ratner at least holds the film together.

Josh Kovacs (Stiller) is the manager for one of New York's most upscale condo-plexes, a place where people aren't merely paying for living space but for the luxury of having a staff that knows them, knows their name, knows their birthdays, their quirks, their dirty little secrets and will unflinchingly deliver service with a smile. Kovacs' chief task is catering to the needs of penthouse resident Arthur Shaw (Alda), a Wall Street titan who is suddenly arrested for Bernie Madoff-style securities fraud. In headline-ripping style, Shaw is put under house arrest at the top of the tower, and it just so happens he was managing the pension funds of all the tower's employees.

Seeing that Shaw might beat the rap and not refund a dime to the tower workers, Kovacs devises a scheme to steal back the money by using his concierge smarts to devise a foolproof burglary and getaway plan. He pulls in several employees and a geeky ex-resident (Broderick) for help, but they need a criminal mind. So Kovacs turns to his profane street-crook neighbor Slide (Murphy), who is supposed to school Kovacs' gang in how to rob.

It's nice to see Eddie Murphy go back to his slick fast-talking persona that vaulted him to success on Saturday Night Live and a slew of hit movies including his best, Beverly Hills Cop. The only problem is, Murphy's more dirty than funny. His earlier films were crude, yes, but they didn't stretch him into some gansta-wannabe. Maybe Murphy is making up for all those family films by overdoing it here.

Stiller's performance is more believable, although I still have a hard time buying into his leap from personal assistant to aspiring thief. For that matter, I also have a hard time believing Alda -- one of Hollywood's most likeable actors -- as a heartless moneyed cretin, but doggone it if he doesn't try.

Tower Heist probably should have gone more of the con-job route like The Sting, relying more on the wits and problem-solving skills of its characters rather than trying to pull off the heist of the decade.

Reel To Reel: The Three Musketeers (2011)

2011-10-28T16:14:00.001-07:00

All for one... and if they'd only stopped at one.

Going Rate: Worth matinee price
Starring: Milla Jovovich, Christoph Waltz, Logan Lerman, Matthew MacFadyen, Ray Stevenson, Luke Evans, Mads Mikkelsen
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Ye olde swordplay, mild language

I keep waiting for somebody to come up with an 18th Century version of "steampunk," that Victorian flavor of science fiction. This umpteenth remake of Dumas' classic may be as close as Hollywood comes for awhile, with not one but two flying ships sporting 17th-century automatic weapons. Oh yes, there's swordplay.

Director Paul W.S. Anderson's Musketeers are three of France's finest swashbucklers who I gather would align themselves with the other 99 percent. They're out of work, without direction, broke and drinking liberally. But when they get a mission, they're as dangerous as the IMF. Along comes D'Artagnan (Lerman), a young hotshot with a sword, and before long, they're back in action to save France from the sinister plan of Cardinal Richelieu (Waltz). He's aided by Milady De Winter (Jovovich), a limber double agent whose first name leaves one wondering if a bow is required every time it purses the lips.

Enjoying this film requires the kind of suspension of disbelief necessary to enjoy a weekend at the Renaissance Festival, otherwise you'll be left puzzling over the following things:

Why is nobody bringing a pistol to a gigantic swordfight in the middle of the picture when we just saw one used a few scenes ago?
How can Milady [bowing] De Winter run in that heavy late-Renaissance gown?
Where on Earth are the French and English getting the helium for those flying airships? It has to be helium, because you won't see any Hindenburg disasters in this movie. Oh the humanity...
How do they steer those things so well without constantly reconfiguring the sails?
Why do all these Frenchmen speak with English accents? And why do the Musketeers sound the least French of anybody?
Did the French really give out citations for horse droppings?

The Three Musketeers keeps getting remade because people keep seeing it. Or Hollywood invariably thinks it does, notwithstanding its lousy box office take and Jovovich's complaint that the studio is failing to market it. The ending scene all but begs for a sequel. No doubt it will get made.

Reel To Reel: The Ides Of March

2011-10-15T23:34:00.000-07:00

True primary colors.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: George Clooney, Ryan Gosling, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Paul Giamatti
Rated: R
Red Flags: Strong language, one sex scene

The Ides Of March is a 100-minute game of political chicken or no-limit Washington hold-em centered around a presidential candidate who talks a great game of integrity while his staffers realize there are only two requirements for political office: knowing how to win and knowing how to add. Playing dirty is not frowned upon but expected.

Stephen Myers (Gosling) is a smart young press secretary for Gov. Mike Morris (Clooney, who also directs) who plays the system like Tiger Woods at the top of his game. He has a reporter in his pocket, great strategies for his boss and all the right things to say. But he needs 200 delegates to seal the Democratic nomination, something which will require the endorsement of Ohio's governor, and as you might expect, that endorsement won't come out of mere good will. That job falls to Morris' campaign manager Paul Zara (Hoffman), the prototypical chain-smoking political sage who you know belongs in some backroom somewhere making deals.

Myers thinks he's hot stuff, but not any hotter than he can handle until he secretly meets with Tom Duffy (Giamatti), campaign manager for the governor's opponent. Duffy indicates Morris' lead in the polls is soft and tips him off to the strategy that threatens to disintegrate that lead. However, Myers is also getting person with a campaign intern (Evan Rachel Wood). After the sex scandals of Bill Clinton and John Edwards, you would think Democratic campaign workers would know better. However, it's not Myers' fling that's the big problem, nor is it his fraternizing with the enemy. It's something much bigger, yet all too familiar.

The film's title draws from the famous warning to Julius Caesar in Shakespeare's iconic play of politics, power, and people with knives waiting to stab somebody in the back. Likewise, Ides' tension comes from characters who are armed with damaging information like hand grenades on their belts, and we're constantly watching to see who lobs the next bomb and who gets hurt while Gov. Morris models himself into the perfect candidate, and Clooney sounds absolutely presidential in those compulsory-element speech-making scenes. I'm wondering what's going to take this guy down. However, when I read Julius Caesar in high school, I considered it to be Brutus' tragedy, the story of noble motivations gone wrong. Et tu, Stephen? Yet all of this psycho-political brinksmanship takes place out of the public eye, even outside the 24-hour cable news cycle.

I saw this movie with my Royal Father and Queen Mother, who had a beef with a critical plot twist. She felt it more appropriate of a 1970's tensioner like Absence Of Malice. Your Majesty, I respectfully disagree. Part of the nature of a suspense film is that its characters aren't completely on the level, even if we think we know what they should do. If I had any problem with this film, it was that it ended abruptly as it was just beginning to take off. Maybe that's because I was so drawn into its moves and counter-moves that I wanted to see Election Night and not just the primary.

Deal Me In!

2011-10-13T14:28:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, I appeared on "The Price Is Right." Now I take on "Let's Make A Deal." And this time, I got the eligibility questions out of the way up front, so game-show fanboys, you don't get to hate on me this time.

5:30am – Wake up. Get into my Royal Stewart kilt. Chug some hot cocoa and hit the road. The show time on my ticket says 11:30am, but I don't know how early I need to be at the studio to make it into the taping. Nothing on the Internet gives any clues. I figure 3 to 4 hours in advance will be fine, if the lines are anything like “The Price Is Right.” But this is a less-popular show.

6:30am – On the road, I hit the first of several traffic congestion spots on “the ten.” All through Los Angeles, cars are backing up in certain spots with no discernible explanation. Maybe too many people are trying to merge into traffic, slowing everyone down, but I don't see that happening.

7:15am – It amazes me how Angelinos put up with this every single day, sitting in cars crawling around at a snails' pace, wasting at least an hour, more likely two, out of their workdays on a backed-up stretch of concrete. You would think a massive effort would go into telecommuting and shorter work weeks, but people aren't clamoring for that. I figure if we took only 20 percent of the cars off the road through alternative work schedules, you'd see a vast improvement.

8:00am – I've gone from the 10 to the 101, also known as the “Hollywood Freeway.” But through downtown, it's more like the Hollywood Parking Lot.

8:15am – I'm in the area of Sunset Boulevard and Van Ness. My destination is the Sunset Bronson Studios, also home to KTLA-TV. But first, I have to find a place to park. I am advised I can't park in the studio lot, so I have to find someplace on the street, someplace legal, someplace safe. I loop around a few blocks, hitting the brakes once to avoid hitting a teenager who walked out in front of me in the middle of a left turn. I find a place on the street near the studio's main guard shack. I park and walk up to it, in the full regalia.

“I have tickets to 'Let's Make A Deal,'” I say to a glass box full of security agents, some overweight.

“Go down and make a left,” one guard says. “The check-in is in front of the tower.”

I walk down that way, a lone Scotsman in the morning, and look for the check-in point. But underneath the iconic mock KTLA tower is nothing but a brick wall and a gate. I can see a trailer marked “Let's Make A Deal” through the bars. But nobody's there to check me in.

There is, however, one lady sitting on a bus bench.

“Are you here for 'Let's Make A Deal?'” she asks.

“Yes.”

“So am I! I'm the first one here!”

Angel, as she's called, has gotten here bright and early. She's a designer working out in Marina Del Rey, but she's also selling real estate – and she'd like to win some cash to help get her fashionable side going. She's wearing a costume of her own design: satin tinged with black, adorned with a giant butterfly on the front. It's classier than most of the costumes I see on the show.

9:00am – Others start arriving, some in costume, some unadorned. One lady is carrying around an M&M display box as part of her candy costume, and she's getting an offer of duct tape to hold it onto her.

Angel and I sit on the bench and watch buses roll by us with the people inside giving us a slightly puzzled stare, unaware of why were here. Hollywood power players cruise past in their luxury cars, phones pressed to ears. A man rolls up in a battered car and takes a cell-phone picture of the Scotsman and the Butterfly lady he just saw out his side window.

“I knew that was going to happen,” I say.

9:30am – The sun is reminding me that this is going to be an unusually hot day for October in Los Angeles. It should be 20 degrees cooler than it is, and I'm wearing three layers of clothing. But I'm willing to wait.

10am – One of the contestant coordinators comes out and starts passing paperwork down the lines. I know the drill. Read the rules, fill out the forms. This is where I have to make my full disclosure. Unlike last time, the rules are clear and on paper in front of me.

“I have an eligibility problem,” I tell one of the guys in the blue “Let's Make A Deal” polo shirts. “I work in the newsroom of a CBS affiliate. I don't have anything to do with the show, but I work for an affiliate.”

“I'll check,” he says. Maybe there's a chance. He ducks back behind inside the gate and returns a minute later.

“Sorry,” he says. “You're not eligible. But you're more than welcome to be in the audience.”

That's all I needed to hear. Just get my kilt and I on television.

10:15am – The contestant drill is a bit more comfortable than the “Price Is Right” routine. After passing through a metal detector – in which I have to take off all my clan badges and pins from my tartan sash – the staff leads us to a pair of trailers. In one, we turn in our paperwork and get two pictures taken: one for records purposes, and another for a souvenir. Stand in front of a green wall, look excited, and the photo wizards will superimpose you over a still picture of the LMAD set.

It's a costly memento: $20 for each print. But nobody has a choice, since cell phones and cameras aren't allowed inside the studio.

A small costume shop is located inside the first trailer for those who came unadorned. If it seems like the same outfits keep reappearing on the show, it's no coincidence. The shop rents simple outfits for about $10 to $20.

10:30am – We're led to the second trailer, where our contestant producers brief us on what makes good television. First, excitement is crucial. Second, any prize is a good prize, even if you don't want it or you already have one: “Take another!”

“A couple of weeks ago we had a lady on who got a $500 gift card to Bloomingdale's,” the producer tells us. “And she says, 'I don't like to shop!'”

“Did you rip that card out of her hand?” somebody asks.

“No, but I wanted to.”

Then the interviewing begins. It's just like “Price,” as the producer goes in groups of about 15 people down the line.

Angel, on my left, is prepared. I've coached her on what producers are looking for in a contestant on the bench outside. She is full of enthusiasm: “I wanna win some Mon-EY!” She does well.

Then the producer comes to me. “Christopher.”

I bow.

“Are you from Scotland?”

“No, but my ancestors are.”

“Why do you not want to be considered as a contestant?”

He says that because the contestant number card I'm wearing below my nametag has a giant X through it.

“I would like to be eligible,” I explain. “But they tell me I can't be. But I can do a Highland Fling, though!”

11:00am – The staff leads out out to sit on a long bench outside the studio, just like “Price.” We're advised of the location of the restrooms and the snack bar, which should be opening up any minute now. I make a run for the Necessary.

11:30am – I grab some water and chips for Angel and a hot dog for myself. It's getting hotter. “I'm wearing three layers of clothing,” I explain to people, typical for the 18th Century, but not the most comfortable for 21st Century Los Angeles.

11:45am – The wait continues. I'm hoping it won't be much longer, since all the coordination work is done. The time on my ticket said 11:30. I'm thinking that wasn't an actual taping time, but a deadline time to make it into the taping. I could've come two hours later and still made it on.

Noon – Another line of contestants is parked across the narrow walkway from us. People are forming yet another line to use the restrooms. It's hot and getting hotter. But everybody's still in good spirits, eager to win money or a car or some appliances. Angel is still pumped up. I'm conserving my energy.

“You took off your hat!” she observes.

I had to. It was trapping heat.

12:30pm – A lady next to me wonders what I do for a living, and I tell her I produce television newscasts. Before long, the conversation turns to how I got into the business, how I do what I do, and how I survive it.

“First, be willing to work in a small market,” I say, taking on the slight air of an old journalism professor. “When you move up, you're going to savor those times when you were working in Lincoln, Nebraska. Second, learn to do as many things as you can, so you can have a skill set. Be versatile. Third, find a life outside the business, whether it's church, preferably, or something else. Get away from the newsroom and get a fresh perspective on life.”

Angel, who has slipped off to get into an air-conditioned trailer for a few moments, returns during the tail end of my lecture, which is leaving people either spellbound or bored. I can't tell which.

“What are you telling them?” she kids.

“How to make it in the news business.”

1pm – We're still waiting. It's still hot. I'm still wearing three layers of clothing, and even in the shade, with all of us sitting shoulder to shoulder, it's hard to stay enthusiastic. I don't know why it takes so long to get everything prepped. I'm hoping we're just a few minutes away from the studio.

“We'll be going into the studio in about 20 to 25 minutes,” a production assistant says.

I guess not.

A clipboard is circulating among us, asking us to put down our names and email addresses for future taping information. “Write quickly!” Angel announces. “The faster we get it signed, the faster we go in!”

1:30pm – Finally, we're inside Studio 1 on the Sunset Bronson lot. As always, the set looks smaller in real life than it does on TV. There's seating for about 200 people, all in costume. We won't need any paid seat fillers this day. LED lights are everywhere, along with Vari-Lites, scoops and spots overhead. Five studio cameras stand in front of the three curtains in front of us: two jib cameras and three traditional pedestal mounts. All of them are HD capable, I think, but LMAD is one of the few shows not recorded in HD.

Retro-rock warm-up music is pumping into the studio, staring with The Cars' “Just What I Needed.” And people are dancing. I'm still getting back in the spirit of things, sitting quietly and taking in the workings of a network TV production: our contestant producers are on the stage with their clipboards and pencils, making their final list of potential players. I spot a seating diagram in one of their hands, something presumably to help host Wayne Brady find those who make the cut.

1:45pm – Announcer Jonathan Magnum comes out and welcomes everybody, reiterating some of what we've heard before the contestant interviews about how to look great on TV. He introduces Cat, the show's new DJ and keyboardist, who is revving up the dance music to get everybody moving. It's a nice throwback to LMAD's early days, when Ivan Ditmars led a live band on the show.

2:00pm – Showtime at last! The crowd goes crazy for Wayne Brady, who begins the show right in the middle of the audience. He picks a couple – the man dressed as Popeye – to play the first game, “Panic Button.” They have a console with six buttons, and three open curtains with prizes in front of them. Three buttons do nothing, but three others close one of the curtains and forfeit the prize behind it. The task is to press three buttons and hope to close as few curtains as possible. The first press closes nothing. The second closes the curtain on a living-room set. But the third does nothing, leaving them with a hot tub and a motor scooter worth $10,000 total.

Wayne shows them two more buttons: one will open that closed curtain. The other will close the other two curtains. After some debate, with the lady making the decisions, they decide to take what they have and quit. It turns out the button they would've picked would've opened the closed curtains.

2:10pm – More music pumps in as the PA's get the stage ready for the next contestants and adjust some prizes behind the curtains. The commercial break takes a lot longer in the studio than it does on TV, so Cat's music keeps everybody enthused.

The next game involves three players, three envelopes, and three deals, all tradable for a curtain or a box. We see our first “Zonk” of the show, a trip to the nation's largest termite mound. According to the official rules, Zonks – the show's worthless prices – generally mean some small monetary compensation for the contestant who ends up getting them, although this isn't readily disclosed to the audience. But Wayne makes an exception for a Navy sailor who chooses a curtain and ends up with one.

“You chose to serve your country,” he says. “That's the best choice. I'm gonna give you $300.”

2:30pm – Two ladies are playing an elimination game to see who will end up with a car. Six boxes are in front of them, but only one of them has the word “Car” inside. They take turns choosing, turning down offers of money to stop. One of the ladies is somebody who has been sitting next to us all afternoon in line. Angel and I shout out numbers, but in the end, nobody ends up with the wheels.

2:30pm – “Want some candy?” Jonathan throws out Tootsie Roll pops and Tootsie Rolls as Cat spins some more music during a commercial break.

2:45pm – It's Wayne's Beauty Salon, a skit where the host and sidekick Jonathan get to dress up in fake wigs while offering a deal to a lady... who ends up getting zonked.

3:30pm – Jonathan holds a dance contest. As much as I want to do a Highland Fling, I don't get picked. Instead, three others make it, and they can dance – well.

3:45pm – Time for the Big Deal, and we're back to Popeye and his lady. Wayne asks them if they want to go for it.

“Is there a zonk?” Popeye asks.

Ugggh. Ugggh. Ugggh. If this guy actually watched the show – which Wayne points out – he'd know there's no zonks in the Big Deal, although it's possible to trade down. After hemming and hawing, this befuddled couple decides to go for it. They end up trading away the $10,000 in prizes they won for Door #3, which nets them something about $2,000 less. It's not quite a Zonk, but not the most satisfying conclusion.

3:55pm – Some audience members win money in the quickie deals if they have a make-up kit on them. One woman, unfortunately, does not. Wayne doesn't mind: “She doesn't need make up!” he announces and awards her a quick $100.

4:05pm – The PA's invite people to stay around for the second taping, but I have to hit the road. I don't want to be driving in Hollywood after dark, and I have a dinner engagement with my Dad. I came with nothing, I left with a picture, and I enjoyed the experience. Not a bad deal.

GOD Created Jobs

2011-10-11T12:10:00.000-07:00

Steve Jobs was a Buddhist, not a Christan, but GOD made him. GOD uses people even if they don't know HE'S using them, and HE'LL use non-believers, too. HE used a lady of the night to help Joshua fight the Battle of Jerico (Joshua 2), so why not Steve Jobs to help us deal with technology?

In a commencement speech in 2005, Jobs reflected on mortality in a very secular, technological manner:

"No one wants to die, even people who want to go to Heaven don't want to die to get there, and yet, death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because death is very likely the single best invention of life. It's life's change agent; it clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now, the new is you. But someday, not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it's quite true. Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice, heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

To him, it's like a continuous computer upgrade cycle, one where everyone is going to be obsolete like the old Apple II's he co-created, replaced by something new. Jobs doesn't tells us the new will be better; it will just be new.

So he tells us to be ourselves and listen to ourselves, to that "inner voice, heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become." I gather he wasn't thinking of the HOLY SPIRIT, but that's what he's getting at. GOD equips each of us with a purpose and compass. But so much depends on us listening to HIM and using HIS compass, rather than letting the rest of the world kick us around.

The "dogma" that Jobs talks about can come from the world, especially politics. It can also come from churches. Dogma isn't harmful by definition, but it becomes that way when we start believing it without understanding why we believe it, or become enslaved to it so that we're unwilling to ditch what's not working.

We have two major political parties that are enslaved to dogma right now. We also have, unfortunately, a number of churches that are doing the same thing by treating man-made extensions to GOD'S WORD as gospel. The Bible warns us several times not to do this:

Deuteronomy 4:2 (NIV) -- "Do not add to what I command you and do not subtract from it, but keep the commands of the LORD your GOD that I give you."

Proverbs 30:5-6 (NIV) -- "Every word of God is flawless; he is a shield to those who take refuge in him. Do not add to his words, or he will rebuke you and prove you a liar."

And my favorite, 2 Timothy 2:15 (NIV) -- "Do your best to present yourself to GOD as one approved, a worker who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth."

But people still add to GOD'S WORD. Maybe it's because they want to be set themselves above other Christians. Maybe it's because they don't think they're Christian enough. Maybe they have a hard time believing in GOD'S grace, and they're trying to earn their way into Heaven, aided and abetted by some denominations' belief systems. The truth is, nobody's good enough. We still need JESUS.

I read on Ed Stezer's blog that Jobs was baptized as a Christian, and he later converted to Buddhism. Steve Jobs would've made a better Christian than a Buddhist. We don't know if Steve Jobs came back to GOD in his final hours, but I wonder if he ever thought about who was really guiding him. It wasn't Buddha.

No, You Won't Be Needing The Insecticide

2011-09-23T13:30:00.001-07:00

A favourite of many English dancers who love Pride And Prejudice is this dance from the ball scene with Mr. Darcy: Mr. Beveridge's Maggot. It's a little too advanced for newcomers, which is why you won't see it at the Pride And Prejudice Ball, but it's beautiful to watch.

By the way, the term "maggot" refers to an idea, not a gross worm. Long long ago, people thought creativity came from creatures in the brain, and not just figments of our imagination.

HUZZAH to the lad in the kilt!

A variation of this dance was also popular during the Colonial period...

...as well as the Renaissance:

And here's a slightly slower version:

Finally, your humble servant gives it a try. I'm the lad in the blue outfit, dancing at the Jane Austen Evening last January in Pasadena:

Dance On!

Miss Austen Would Love It

2011-09-22T15:41:00.000-07:00

Every year in Bath, England, a recreation of a Regency-era ball takes place, in full period costume and merriment. Of course, you don't have to go all the way to England -- just come to the Pride And Prejudice Ball this Saturday!

Your Mother Should Know (If She Lived During The Regency)

2011-09-21T12:30:00.002-07:00

"Let's all get up and dance to a song
That was a hit before your mother was born."
--The Beatles

As I pointed out earlier, many dances popular in the Regency era go back at least 100 years earlier, although I've seen one dancing expert argue to the contrary. Why would people want to groove to their grandmother's tunes? Isn't that like doing the twist at the disco? Well, even disco came back. Why not old English Dances?

So let's set the WABAC machine for the 1600's and watch the Newcastle Country Dancers perform their namesake dance: "Newcastle."

Now, here's how it would have looked like during Jane Austen's time:

By the way, the Newcastle dancers also perform a lively version of "Argeers."

You Can't Dance If Your Nose Is Up In The Air

2011-09-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

I offer you another Regency-era dance in celebration and anticipation of the Pride And Prejudice Ball. This one is called "The Physical Snob." I have no idea how it got that name, but what makes it interesting is all the weaving the dancers do amongst themselves:

But It's Almost Fall!

2011-09-19T11:24:00.002-07:00

My Most Honourable Dancing Friends, never mind what the calendar says. It's almost time for the Pride & Prejudice Ball, which means your humble servant shall be offering a week-long sample of period dances for your diversion and enjoyment.

Here's a dance from the Leicestershire Victorian Dancers' Regency ball, "Upon A Summer's Day," which happens to feature some fine period military attire:

You might be surprised to know many Regency dances were also popular during the Renaissance. Here's the same dance performed a little earlier in time:

Set, turn single, and join us again tomorrow...

Reel To Reel: The Debt

2011-09-04T15:36:00.001-07:00

Payback is a... well, you know what.

Going Rate: Worth matinee price
Starring: Helen Mirren, Tom Wilkinson
Rated: R
Red Flags: Bloody violence, sexual situations, a throwaway sex scene in a newspaper office

The Debt is an espionage-action film that drags more than thrills and nearly forgets its marquee star. It spends too much time leading up to something we likely will figure out before the end of the first two reels and wastes too much time waddling around details of a mission that's either marginally successful or stuck in neutral.

Mirren plays Rachel Singer, a retired Israeli Mossad agent who has been glorified with her two colleagues for capturing and killing a Nazi war criminal working as a doctor in 1960's East Berlin. That has been the official line for three decades, and it's also the one coming out in a book written by her daughter. We know right away that's not really the truth, but it takes about an hour or so for our suspicious to be confirmed. The film flashes back to Singer's younger self as a rookie agent teamed up with Stephan (Marton Csokas) and David (Sam Worthington) in a ratty apartment. They practice their martial arts training and occasionally some piano, eating rotten food while awaiting orders from Tel Aviv.

The agents get the green light, capture the notorious Dr. Vogel (Jesper Christensen), and pack him up for shipment back to Israel only to see the plan go sideways. They are left with a cantankerous old Nazi in their apartment and no way to get rid of him, except by killing him. However, killing is off the table because the idea of Israeli justice for Nazis is to make them stand trial, not hunt them down and exterminate them as Hitler's gang did to six million Jews.

Moral dilemmas really mess up good covert work, and the film has no problem demonstrating this as it transitions from action thriller to psychological thriller. But this is where the film drags. This is where I wanted to get to Helen Mirren's wrinkled, scarred self and see how the woman who played Queen Elizabeth II a few years ago cleans things up. She does, sort of, in a way that's more exploitative and shocking than satisfying. I heard one woman say on her way out of the theater, "Just another carefree romp on a Saturday afternoon." Of course she was exaggerating, but not by much.

The Debt is a remake of a 1997 Israeli film which I have not seen, so I can't tell you whether Hollywood jiggered with the pieces. I can tell you it would have benefited from some more cuts here and there, and not to Helen Mirren's face.

And Now, The Next Windstorm...

2011-08-29T19:28:00.001-07:00

Coming home from work this evening, I heard Jeffrey Kuhner of The Washington Times -- filling in for Michael Savage -- rip into "the media" for its Hurricane Irene coverage, griping about how it turned out to be tropical storm instead of a hurricane. And it gets better: he then accuses "the media" of overhyping the storm to "prop up" President Obama. Somehow, I knew the president was going to get blamed here.

And, no surprise, Rush Limbaugh gets his word in, calling it a "national embarrassment:"

It was a rainstorm and there was a lot of flooding and there were deaths associated with it, but the hype, folks, I'll tell you what this was. It was a lesson, if you pay any attention to this, the hype, the desire for chaos, I mean literally, the media desire for chaos was a great learning tool, this was a great illustration of how all of the rest of the media in news, in sports, has templates and narratives and exaggerates beyond reality, creating fear so as to create interest.

And yes, you guessed it, he finds a way to chide the president:

The media, the government are out there peddling fear when facts and calm would make for much better investments and would result in much more credibility for these people reporting this stuff. I'm gonna tell you something, Hurricane Obama -- whatever Irene's gonna cost us, it pales in comparison to the hurricane of the Obama administration.

As Nikki Finke would say, "Oh barf."

Elected officials, emergency workers and evacuees will tell you the same thing when a hurricane is barreling down on their communities. You hope and pray for the best, but you prepare for the worst. As I write this, cities in Vermont, Massachusetts, and New Jersey are all dealing with massive flooding. More than 30 people have lost their lives, and that number could go higher. Imagine the death toll had the media listened to talk radio and told us to shrug off the storm.

Meteorology is not an exact science, even though our forecasting and computer models are better than they were three decades ago. The people at the National Hurricane Center freely admit this. That's why the "forecast cone," as it's called, stretches for hundreds of miles on either side of a hurricane's predicted path. All weekend long, the NHC repeatedly warned us not to take this storm lightly. A Category 1 Hurricane and a strong tropical storm aren't that much different, and they're both destructive. Let us also remember these kinds of systems rarely hit so far north. A lot of folks aren't used to preparing for them. They need to know what's coming.

People also confuse the concept of "Continuing Coverage" with hype. Media outlets provide this kind of coverage on major events simply because a large number of people want to know just what in tarnation is going on now, not at the top and bottom of the hour. If your network doesn't provide it, somebody else will, or viewers will go to the Internet and get it there. Even in national emergencies, news is still competitive.

Consider this: Would you rather be in a relief shelter or a pine box? Would you rather be griping about your loused-up weekend at the beach or swept away by the tide? In life-or-death situations, I would rather be over-warned than under-prepared. I would be grateful that my house was still standing than shocked because nobody told me it could be blown away.

Talk radio show hosts never miss a chance to blame the media for everything they can because that is what brings in the ears and the ad dollars. Far be it from them to ever be thankful that the storm wasn't as bad as feared... or thank GOD that it wasn't. Irene weakening from a major hurricane to a tropical storm before it hit New York City isn't the fault of forecasters or media or hype. I prefer to see it as proof that GOD answers prayers and is watching over us in the middle of a spiritual battle. My words to the media haters out there ironically echo the words of Darth Vader: "I find your lack of faith disturbing."

How about this: let's just give all the talk show hosts and partisan gawkers their own conservative weather channel. They can gab for hours about how the media and the NHC is getting it wrong and how every major tropical system is overhyped by "the media" and the forecasters -- who all believe in bogus global climate change anyway -- and how we shouldn't change our plans or evacuate because it's just gonna be a really long rainstorm.

And oh yeah, it's all President Obama's fault.

Snapshots From The Highlands

2011-08-28T17:21:00.000-07:00

Featuring the photos of Mr. M. Cynecki

And now, some photographic memories from this year's Highland Ball, presented as always by We Make History. I've written so many words on so many balls that I think I'll just let the pictures do most of the talking.

Madame Noire with her Highland bodyguard... and dancing partner.

A duel? No, just two gentlemen united in the Cause.

Escorting Madame in the Grand Promenade. We could march all the way to London, even if the Bonnie Prince couldn't.

This is what it looks like when I approach a lass and ask for a dance.

The start of the jigging contest, or in my case, the Highland Fling contest. We started in a circle...

...and then broke free.

I have to have stamina to survive, even though my spirit is limitless.

Oh how I flung. But the prize belonged to the lasses this night...

...in a showdown between neighboring clans.

Careful with those high kicks, most honourable lass! I speak from experience.

For more recollections of the evening, see the official Highland Ball page.

Fling It!

2011-08-19T17:30:00.002-07:00

I can't finish this weeklong Highland Ball tribute without paying homage to that most famous of Scottish dances, the Highland Fling.

Here is the traditional caper from the Dunedin Dancers:

Now, a modern interpretation from some creative Lasses who mashed it up with Queen and Survivor:

And here's some children trying it:

That's probably the closest to my version of the fling, which I shall attempt once more -- and preferably more than once -- tomorrow night!

Dance On, Lads and and Lasses!

Those Eastern Scots Are An Especially Happy Lot, Aye?

2011-08-18T18:44:00.001-07:00

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, here you see some Scots and not-so-Scots enjoying one of my favourite Scottish dances, the "Gay Gordons."

Here's another version of it from a wedding:

Some of you know it better as the "Carolina Twirl" after it got to the states and got changed a bit:

Naturally, I'm hoping to dance this at the Highland Ball.

It's All Fun And Games Until Somebody Steps On The Sword

2011-08-17T22:58:00.001-07:00

As I continue our dance countdown to the Highland Ball, the legend of the Sword Dance is that you can show off as much as you want, but if you step on the sword, you will die on the battlefield.

This young Highlander has no problem with facing death:

That's hard enough when you're doing it solo, but imagine having dancing with three other brave Scots, like the Gordon Highlanders in this clip from the movie Waterloo:

Dancing In The Streets

2011-08-16T19:38:00.005-07:00

The Highland Ball is one of my favourite balls, not just because of the colourful kilts, but also because we dance it in a beautiful ballroom on the Northern Arizona University campus.

But you don't always need a ballroom, or even lights, as this group demonstrates.

According to the YouTube description:

Aurora Scottish Dance and Music hold an impromptu late night ceilidh on the main road through the village of Imbsheim in the Alsace region of France after the formal part of the International Folk Dance Festival had finished on 24th August 2011. In addition to audience and performers from the festival, the Mayor of Imbsheim also joined in with the dancing.

You Don't Need To Light Anything

2011-08-15T19:33:00.001-07:00

The Fourth of July is so last month, but the Scots have a dance for it: the Firecracker Reel.

I'm not sure how it got that name, and Google doesn't provide any answers. Maybe you can?

In the meantime, enjoy it from Plateau Scottish Dancers:

Chase That Goose

2011-08-14T23:48:00.003-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, can it be true? The Highland Ball is nearly here! And as is tradition, your humble dancing servant is devoting a week to Scottish capering.

First up, a lively dance from the Dunedin Dancers of Edinburgh (which is pronounced "Ed-in-burro," not "Ed-in-burg," like the city in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas). While I'm used to chasing squirrels in my dancing days, these folks are on a "Wild Goose Chase."

Next, the "Diamond Jublilee:"

And finally, a popular one, the "Reel of the 51st:"

You have to love that great circle at the end -- keeping in time on a slipping step is not easy. Been there. Danced that.

Reel To Reel: Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes

2011-08-08T20:36:00.001-07:00

Monkey see, monkey do.

Going Rate: Worth full price admission
Starring: Andy Serkis (motion-capture), James Franco, John Lithgow
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Intense action sequences, mild profanity

No apes were harmed in the making of this picture. In fact, no apes were used in the making of this picture, which alone makes Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes a landmark achievement. You will hear this film compared to Avatar, and that is not a stretch. Motion-capture CGI is now at the level where human actors can be seamlessly replaced by monkeys in an ironic form of reverse evolution theory.

But actors still gotta act, and that's where Rise rises. Its primate stars are nuanced, sympathetic characters, not one-dimensional dirty apes, and nowhere is that more clear than in the performance of Andy Sirkis as Ceasar, a chimp saved from death who grows into the leader of a revolution. As Gollum in the Lord Of The Rings trilogy, he's already familiar with seeing other faces pasted over his own, but it's still his expressions and characterization that comes through.

Ceasar is the house pet and test subject of scientist Will Rodman (Franco), who's working on a cure for Alzheimer's Disease. Rodman has developed a virus that not only halts the illness but also regenerates brain tissue. His research nearly collapses when a test chimp gets out of control, but Rodman is relentless because he has another objective: saving the life of his Alzheimer's-afflicted father (Lithgow).

Rodman watches Cesar develop into super-chimp, smart and getting smarter, and it encourages him to try the experimental drug on his father. Dad comes out of his disease like he's awakened from a nightmare, and Ceasar happily swings through the trees. All would be well if it weren't for nature taking its course and both the chimp and the treatment getting out of hand.

Rise is unmistakeably a parable about tampering with the workings of the brain, but its real target is our heart as we watch Ceasar struggle with his feelings. Is he a pet or a really hairy person? Is he a normal chimp or something else? Ceasar can communicate with signs, but it's his eyes that do most of the talking. If Andy Serkis doesn't get some kind of award nomination for his mastery of expressions, I'll be tempted to beat my chest like King Kong. Oh yes, there's a gorilla in this picture, along with a circus orangutan, and Cesar talks to the latter like Tarzan when it's subtitled for us. I wonder if the filmmakers intended that allusion or if it's just a nifty coincidence.

Rise Of The Planet Of The Apes deserves a sequel not just because it's a good picture. It's a good picture that actually left me wanting more, instead of being just another shallow summer blockbuster. Right now this film is exceeding expectations at the cash register, and that's always a promising sign, not that Hollywood needs one to sequelize anything.

Hearts Of Heroes

2011-08-08T20:06:00.002-07:00

My only desire for the evening was that I might honor a lady with a dance, but GOD had other plans.

“Every time I come here I'm wearing a tricorn,” I tell my other Sons of the American Revolution compatriots as we approached the entrance to the Desert Diamond Casino. I was referring to previous judging stints on Lucky Break, an anachronistic and offbeat but appreciated touch.

Tonight nobody will question of our Continental Army uniforms as we gather for the annual Purple Heart Ball. Our usual color-guard duties are assigned to a military unit, but our hosts want us to add historic color to the event. General George Washington, after all, created the honor.

The event sold out well in advance, so I know we'll have a great turnout. A military band plays smooth jazz to a front room filling up with people mingling and seeking the bar. The commander in charge summons us over for a run-through of what we're supposed to do during the presentation of the colors.

Every event is unique in its layout and staging. We have no one set way to carry in the flags and post them, so the standard for the standards morphs to the needs of the occasion. When we carry no flags at all, the process takes on a new wrinkle. This evening's plan calls for us to march in after the flags for the various armed forces and post ourselves on either side of the stage. Three of us will stand on one side of the stage without guns. Another compatriot and your humble servant will stand on the other side, with guns, ready to salute with our arms – a “present arms” – at the proper time when the color guard marches in with the national and state flags. The National Anthem will follow, then an invocation, and then we march out in reverse of the way we entered the room.

“Salute with your flat hands?” a compatriot asks.

“Yes.”

The palm is facing outward, European style, instead of perpendicular to the forehead. That is certain.

The rest of plan is clouded in uncertainty as I hear it, especially in the din of the music. I'd like to walk through it at least once to visualize where I should stand, where I should look, what I should do. At least a hundred pairs of eyes are going to be on us, and I have only one shot at it. The real Continental Soldier would know what to do. My re-enacted persona can only get as close as possible and try not to blow it.

Another detail has yet to be determined: do we take our tricorns off during the Invocation?

“They're leaving their hats on,” someone says, referring to the color guard.

“Then we leave them on.”

I'm not comfortable with it. I put GOD first, and that means uncovering during prayer in respect. If some people uncover and others don't, it's not a uniform standard, and any ceremonial maneuver requires uniformity. I think of everybody else who will be uncovering, though, and that should include us. We need a definite answer, and our fearless leader sets out to get one.

For now, we'll go on with the other part of our mission: greeting the guests and interacting with them, the Purple Heart honorees. They flow in wearing suits or dress uniforms, or suits with their VFW-style hats. I spot a Marine decorated with three rows of medals. Sailors in pressed whites help escort a few old soldiers to their tables. Ladies in their cocktail dresses amass and chatter. I offer more than a few courtly bows to them as they pass by, and my compatriots soon imitate the gesture.

“They always like it, even if you don't do it exactly right,” one fellow Continental notes.

Cell-phone cameras emerge from purses and shoot off photos of us standing at attention with our muskets shouldered next to admiring guests, images soon to work their way onto Facebook. I spot a lady in a ball gown tantalizingly close to an 18th Century polonaise, and for three seconds I am back in 1776.

I approach a couple admiring the silent auction table. “Good evening, Good Sir!” I greet with a slight British accent. I bow to his wife. “Good evening, My Lady! So glad to see you here tonight.”

“I love your uniform!” the wife returns.

“You are well-dressed yourselves,” I return.

“Are you here to protect us?”

“Against a few redcoats or rogue Hessians.”

“Hello, Christopher,” sounds a voice behind me.

I turn to see Mike, Coach Mike, one of the guys I sit across from every Friday morning at Prayer Breakfast. He's wearing a Purple Heart ribbon. Neither of us knew the other would be here.

“Hello!” I greet, stunned. “I bet you've never seen me like this!”

“I've seen the hat,” he replied.

I quickly run into a few other guys from the Friday morning breakfast club, people I knew but didn't know like this, not in connection to the military – and their wives, whom I bow to.

We still don't know if we're supposed to uncover or not for the Invocation. Another compatriot goes to get an answer from somebody else. Meanwhile, it becomes clear we're not going to get a walk-through. I'm nervous.

“We'll make this work,” I say to the others and to myself.

Minutes before the start of the event, we finally get our answer: yes, we'll uncover.

The first members of the military march in and we follow. A fellow compatriot softly coaches me on how to shoulder the musket for consistency. I follow the others to the center of the room, where we're supposed to split and take the sides of the stage, only I won't know where to split until the others split first, so I must be ready to turn on a dime. Ceremonial marching requires both precision and style. Turning a corner means halting and snapping to a new direction instead of turning while walking. I snap-turn at least three times until I reach the desired position. It looks good. All is well.

The color guard from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base marches in with tight precision.
“Present arms,” my fellow compatriot whispers. I'm glad somebody's calling orders, because nobody else is. I'm trained to take commands, not anticipate or give them.

The National Anthem brings all to their feet and my musket out in front of me, held high and parallel, dividing my face in half.

Another whisper from my compatriot, and he nudges me to the steps of the stage, where we take our positions for the Invocation. There's no set-up before the prayer, so I hastily uncover and give Thanks. The march-out proceeds according to plan, and relief washes over me. It's time to eat.

Our hosts are spreading us out so we can mingle with as many tables as possible. I end up at Table 8, a sparsely-populated location in a corner of the banquet hall. A gentleman and a couple are already there sipping iced tea. I bow and greet and take my place, removing my tricorn as per protocol. Moments later, a group of four sailors joins us. Another sailor at a table next to us sees us, and I displace myself to make room for all of them to sit together.

I find out that sailor is a naturalized American citizen from Panama.

“I studied your history for my tests,” he says in his accented English. “It is very interesting, the battles.”

I wager he knows more military history than I can get my hands around.

“You've probably heard of the Battle of Cowpens,” I say. “It's the one where the militia draws the British in, and the Continentals are over the hill waiting for them. It's in the movie The Patriot.”

He probably knows – he just can't remember it.

On my right side is a woman with a soldier son. She wears a button with his picture, and I know what it could mean.

“Where is he serving?” I ask.

“Afghanistan,” she replies. She tells me his journey from student to combat duty, passing up a baseball scholarship for the sandbox before his death at the hands of a makeshift bomb, or “IED” as they call it officially.

“We were invited here,” she says, telling how she has been trying to honor his memory.

“We honor by doing,” I reassure her.

Salads come and go, followed by the steaks and regulation rubber chicken. It's good for banquet food, but that's not the point. An empty table for sits in the center of the room, in memory of those soldiers still missing. Remember, we're told.
As the feasting winds down, the emcee introduces a 14-minute clip from an upcoming documentary on Purple Heart veterans. The rest will come soon on television somewhere in Arizona. The segment begins with a mine worker who went to war and came home to fight another one for equality. But its second subject stops me cold.

Before me are photos of Coach Mike, as he goes off to Vietnam as a sharpshooter... and then comes home to an ungrateful nation. An interview clip shows him recalling the time, and the pain is all over his face. Either he doesn't need to say any more, or he doesn't want to. Instead, the narration advances to his present life on the basketball court and his feelings about a current generation who have never known the full brunt of war. To his admiration, they are still able to commit to serving in Iraq and Afghanistan, without a draft.

I never knew any of this. All I knew was a man who coached basketball and shared his struggles at the Friday morning breakfast table. I knew he hunted “the bird of peace,” as he joked. I didn't know where that aim came from. He had told me not to be afraid of reporting what really went on in the world as part of my job, as much as it might get under peoples' skins. Now I knew where the attitude came from.

I had just shared with the soldier mom how I never knew that much about Grandfather Francis' role in World War II, how he worked with the team that monitored the Enigma machine, and how much he took to the grave with him. I never really saw him as a serviceman until the day we laid him to rest with a 21-gun salute. Now, here I was learning another soldier's story – only this time, the soldier was still alive, and sitting one table next to me.

Our emcee made more presentations, going through a list of families who had lost a loved one to war. The mother next to me was on that list, receiving a purple heart memento in trible to her fallen son...

...whose first name I heard for the first time...

...and it happened to be Christopher.

Now, everything was clear. GOD wanted me at this banquet and ball, not merely for appearance or to honor others but to see and hear what I heard. GOD had two messages for me this evening. HE wanted me to remember why I put on Revolutionary War outfit, if I ever had any doubt. And HE wanted me to continue doing it. Sometimes GOD warns us, but all the time HE guides us, and if we are willing to see it, HE encourages us.

The big band Memories burst out the Glenn Miller standard “In The Mood,” and the ball portion of the evening commenced. It seemed almost out of place after such an emotionally draining prelude, but our hosts reassured us our fallen soldiers would want it that way.

“We're leaving you without adult supervision,” a fellow compatriot called to me as he left for the evening.

For the next two hours I went in search of a lady who might afford me a dance. I found no unattached fair ones, or anybody with that longing look. But that wasn't the point.

Just A Reminder -- You Voted For These People!

2011-07-31T15:12:00.000-07:00

Well, maybe you didn't, and it's likely you're just as disappointed and angry as I am at Congress right now. I am not about to blame you, the voters, for the debt debacle currently occupying this nation, but you get what you vote for.

What you voted for was partisanship, because you voted for people who belong to them. You voted for Democrats, Republicans and Tea Partiers. Sensible people are part of these political organizations, but rational, well-behaved statesmen and women don't hold power anymore. They're fortunate to get elected in the first place.

The priority should be country first, party second. But as I have said before, partisanship has become a false religion, one that covets power above everything and values ideological street cred above what's best for the country. I honestly believe some those creatures in Washington desire some form of a default as a nuclear option, thinking if they play their hand right, their opposition will curl up and die. It doesn't matter if the rest of us go down for the count. That's not leadership, that's arrogance, and all parties do it. Let me repeat that: all parties do it.

So once again, I say we should've listened to George Washington, who said in his farewell address:

"However [political parties] may now and then answer popular ends, they are likely in the course of time and things, to become potent engines, by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion."

What's the solution? Stop voting for anybody who's associated with a political party. Don't vote for Republicans, Democrats, Tea Partiers or Libertarians. Given how that eliminates just about everybody, I would rather write in a non-partisan candidate than vote for any partisan, at least for Congress. I would encourage you to do the same, if you're as fed up as I am. Remember, you're still voting. Do not let anybody tell you that a vote for somebody outside the two-party majority is a wasted vote.

I wish we had some better system to get more independents to run for office. Unfortunately, campaigning costs money, and the parties are tremendous fundraising machines, if nothing else. Arizona's Clean Elections system is no panacea, either, even though the state is registering a growing number of independents. A single open primary would help clean up the mess, but I don't expect it to happen.

You can do something besides vote independently, however. You can pray independently. GOD, thankfully, is not a Republican or a Democrat... or a Tea Party member. GOD is GOD. Pray that our partisans start asking for GOD's wisdom, or using what GOD already gave them (James 1:5). GOD doesn't play politics, and it's about time our politicians took the hint.

Reel To Reel: Cowboys & Aliens

2011-07-31T00:28:00.002-07:00

Riders in the sky.

Going Rate: Worth matinee price
Starring: Daniel Craig, Harrison Ford
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Western violence, mild profanity, one partially naked lady

Until now, the closest mashup I've seen between the wild west and a wild visitor from outer space was that time the 1st Virginia shot down that flying saucer in Poland Junction. We should've called it Confederates And Aliens. But now the war's over, or is it? An invasion force is taking over the range in this hybrid of Alien, Independence Day, Super 8 and Unforgiven.

Lone wolf Jake Lonergan (Craig) wakes up in the middle of the New Mexico desert with a nasty wound, a mysterious bracelet on his wrist, and no memory of how either got there. He heads for the nearby town of Absolution, a dying gold-rush town run by Colonel Dolarhyde (Ford). The colonel's son is a habitual troublemaker, but he goes too far after an encounter with Lonegran. The son ends up in jail, and eventually Lonergan joins him after we find out he's a fugitive who's been robbing coaches for gold. Just when Colonel Dolarhyde comes to bust his son out of jail, Cowboys And Aliens ceases to be a conventional western. Alien spaceships fly in, blowing things up and lassoing earthlings like in that old video game Defender. Now it's up to Lonegran and Dolarhyde to find out what's happening to the town and to their people.

Craig's Lonergan will no doubt remind a lot of people of Clint Eastwood in one of Sergio Leone's movies -- the mysterious stranger with almost no name, but who can handle a gun like nobody else on the planet. So I guess it's understandable when we see how quickly he learns how to use the bracelet stuck to his wrist. Cowboys And Aliens doesn't waste time meditating on its own surrealism; it deals with trouble in the best way possible for people with saddles and six-guns. We know an armed posse poses little chance against space invaders with blasters, but the characters don't know that. To borrow from another western, they have true grit.

When I first saw the trailer for this movie, the premise looked silly, one of those awful studio ideas that make it onto film because it provides a vehicle for effects. However, Cowboys And Aliens is a well-acted adventure that straddles two genres without parodying either one. I can lay a lot of that at the feet of Ford and Craig, and director John Favreau (Iron Man) deserves some props.

Some people will roll their eyes at this film, thinking aliens have no business in 1870's America simply because science fiction or aliens as we know them hadn't been invented yet. That's two-dimensional thinking in a four-dimensional universe for a movie that's not in three-dimensions.

It's On!

2011-07-24T17:47:00.053-07:00

After a hot, sweaty, opening skirmish, the 2nd Virginia gets an invitation to take the lead role, and this time, your humble servant is along for the fight.

Darkness envelops the camps, pierced by a stray headlight from a vehicle delivering supplies to the moonlit tent cities. Police and security buzz the perimeter of the camp, situating themselves for a long day of crowd control. Not even a stray snore cuts through the soupy morning air.

I enter our camp, jacket in hand. I am the first to arrive. I thought at least a few officers would already be here, even before the morning bugle. A few soldiers sleep in the tents. The rest of us have spent the night at a nearby hotel. Re-enacting lets you pick and choose your level of submersion into the military way of life. A cool bed and a cold shower are well-accepted amenities.

The wake-up trumpet sounds across the camps just minutes after three of our officers arrive. "That's a good bugler," one notes as he sits in the darkness.

"I need to visit the sutlers," I say to them. "I lost my kepi on the way in."

"We found one," another replies. "It was lying in the road." I'm not 100 percent sure it's mine, but it fits.

The others stroll in as morning rises to meet us. It's going to be another tough one: high humidity. High heat. However, there's a 40 percent chance of showers. Ordinarily, this would be something we would root for, but not with the tents. Rain means mold. Mold means hours of scrubbing down stained canvas.

This time, I'm rested and ready. My hydration is at a level that will let me function through the sticky Virginia day. I'm ready to come to Stonewall Jackson's aid.

"Officer in the camp!" a voice calls. All of us stop what we're doing, rise up out of our chairs and snap to a salute to the commander who has just walked inside our perimeter.

He calls over our Colonel for a discussion. The two converse outside our hearing as we go about our morning business, sitting and drinking water and making sure we have our supplies in order for the day's battle. Before long, we learn those battle plans are changing.

Most of the 33rd Virginia is gone this morning, deciding not to battle another day of humidity along with the Federals. What's more, one of their commanders has had a medical emergency. A few remain, but some other battalion has to step into their lead role and absorb the holdouts.

Our Colonel huddles us up for a morning meeting. We are more than happy to fill the spot, but the commander giving us the invitation has a request for us: we need to shed our grey wool shell coats. The 33rd Virginia didn't wear them; we actually need blue shirts on instead. The officer making the request, however, understands we may not have the time or cash to invest a spur-of-the moment wardrobe change. Our white shirts will do nicely.

The lead role in the battle will bring other advantages besides less wool to sweat in: we will get an earlier starting time, meaning we will finish earlier and be able to start packing up sooner. We will have less time standing around waiting to be sent in as reinforcements. We'll fire more shots. Everybody will see more action.

"You're in my company," one of the captains says, noticing my pacing as I itch for battle. "And I'm ordering you to sit down and don't overheat."

I remove my old reliable 1861 Springfield musket from its sack. It has rusted a bit on the outside after the trip from Arizona, but it looks all right. During inspection, though, it fails to cock properly, meaning it's no good for battle. I figure rust may have invaded the lock, meaning the hammer won't hold where it's supposed to. If we had more time, I could take it apart and clean it out with some help from one of several gun experts in the camp. But we have to form up and march out. I swap my Springfield for a loaner Enfield from the regimental armory. I could learn to like this weapon: it's lighter and easier to carry on a long march.

"Yeah," the recruit in the file right of me agrees. "It's that's thinner barrel."

We are among the first Confederates to take the battlefield. No standing around waiting for something to happen.

"Prone!" barks a commander. At least, that's what it sounded like. I have never heard the command before. I don't know if he called "Prone!" or "Prime!" or something else, but it means get down on the ground, out of sight, out of range.

For the next 15 minutes, we lay in the grass, sneaking a glance at the Yankee standards hundreds of yards away, peaking out over the tall grass that is rife with spiders, ticks, grasshoppers and hornets. A monster stinging insect nearly buzzes my face. I'm glad the horses haven't trotted through this area before us.

A lady walks between our laid-out ranks delivering ice to anybody who holds out their kepi. I stretch it back to her, and the cubes she deliver go down my shirt and into my mouth, the rest melting into the cap for a cooldown.

Any moment now, we're going to get the order to advance.

When we do, the next 15 minutes rushes by in a stew of shooting, moving and firing. We gain major ground quickly, taking the Yankee artillery. But then we head towards stalemate, hyphenated by my own frustration as I pinch musket caps to get them to fit on the Enfield's smaller nipple. Across from us stand a persistent line of Federals in red shirts, and they just aren't going down.

It takes twice as long for me to fire, but commanders are prodding us: "Load, boys, load!" My Captain sees me rushing to get loaded and slows me down. "Take your time," he says in a low voice. "Don't rush it." Maybe he sees me turning red again like yesterday. The only thing heating up is the gun barrel. The Springfield disperses heat very well. The Enfield is holding it in.

We push on. We fall back. The ranks grow ragged as we rush to form up.

"Dress this line!" I call, trying to help my brothers in arms keep in line.

"Somebody needs to take a hit!"

Comrades to the right and left of me go down on volleys, and we pull them back up again as we advance, recycling them back into the unit. Nobody wants to lie around and play dead in a battle this large and exciting. Do it right, and the crowds don't even know it. Still, about a dozen mock casualties litter the space between us and them. At least one whips out a pocket camera and covertly squeezes off a few frames around himself. A couple of men in period attire dart between the lines, huddled over small video cameras. Official souvenir DVD's will be out in a few weeks.

Pressing on after shooting off some 30 or so rounds, we drive the Federals back behind the tree line -- and they've left us some booty.

"Plunder that water supply!" our Colonel barks.

Cases of Nestle water bottles sit in the open, waiting to be devoured. We break ranks, grabbing and drinking as much as we can before falling back into line for the next order to advance.

In front of us, the cavalry units are charging and putting on a show, one barely visible to people in the bleachers. A few more lines advance, and then just as suddenly as it began, it's all over.

"That's it, boys, the Yankees are leaving," a commander says.

And so are the crowds. Whether it's the heat, or the mistaken feeling that most of the action has ended, the stands are emptying out quickly. But appreciation is everywhere. Journeying back to camp, and throughout the day, spectators stop us and thank us, asking groups of us to pose for a picture or two.

I am chilled out and walking in the clouds. At last, I got to be a part of the battle, and oh what a battle. We agree universally this was the better battle of the two, whereas yesterday the unit did a lot of standing around and waiting to move in on cue. Nobody cares that this skirmish didn't last as long. Every moment counted.

As soon as most visitors are gone, we start taking the camp apart. The sun emerges from behind the clouds, and we're glad it held off so long. Tents come down and go into the trailer as we sort through all our personal effects. Soldiers trade the wool pants and linen shirts for tees and shorts.

By 4:00, we're loaded up and moving out, exhausted and happy and planning a pizza party back at the hotel with a dip in the pool afterwards. Our Confederate ancestors never had it so good, which is humbling. We brought smiles to a lot of faces today, which is uplifting. We fulfilled our mission, which is inspiring.

"Officer in the camp!"

People jump to attention and salute as one of the lead generals stops by the breakfast area of the hotel, where we're wolfing down Costco's best Italian pies. He smiles and laughs at us in joyous admiration, praising us for stepping up to fill an urgent need.

"I would have liked to visit with you more," he says. "But as they say where I'm from, I was busier than a one-armed pickpocket at a county fair!"

We invite him to stay and break crust, but he and his wife are off to find the best authentic Southern food they can get, collared greens and all. Still, he has to proclaim his love for his Arizona gunslingers, who come so far and do so much.

In war, the history books teach one thing, but the soldiers remember another. It is hardly cinematic or comprehensive. Each battle is personal, focused not on the whole but on the instant. When it's all over, I don't remember the big picture -- the lines on the map with the arrows and circles pointing the direction of the troops and where they marched or retreated. I remember the lone Yankee who charged from the line in desperation to be picked off with one of our shots. I remember that solid walls of Federals in front of me that weren't moving anywhere. Memories of the rote and struggle of firing at will fix in my head. A taste of fear is in there somewhere, fear not of getting killed but of not keeping up, not looking good on the field. It's not nearly comparable to its mortal cousin, but it's still fear.

Unlike my younger compatriots, this news producer's body isn't in the best shape for battle. I gather one could say that about a few old Confederates. But the heart will compensate for many things and drive forward just like the lines pushing those Federals back.

Meltdown

2011-07-23T14:26:00.002-07:00

I was expecting a heated battle on the first day of the First Manassas 150th Anniversary skirmish. I didn't know that battle would be against my system.

Everything is looking up. I have a few hours of decent sleep on my side, some breakfast, and now I'm out the door in the rental car with an 18-pack of water for my fellow Southern compatriots of the 2nd Virginia -- the 1st Virginia in a special role for this occasion. But I'm going to have to park at a satellite lot with the spectators, given that re-enactor parking is reserved for those who got to the site at the crack of dawn -- and I needed that sleep.

I am dressed for battle: wool shell coat and pants with suspenders, shirt underneath, kepi on top, stiff leather brogans on the bottom. I'm not lugging a gun or other equipment; I've sent those on ahead with other gear through the courtesy of a brother in arms. I'll strap it all on when I get to camp.

That camp, I soon find, is going to be a hike, a shuttle bus ride, and then another long hike. I anticipate the leg work. I anticipate the muggy heat. But it's morning, I think, and the worst of the heat or humidity isn't here yet.

I make it to the shuttle bus at 8am, lugging the 18-pack of Aquafina all the way from my car to the bus seat. "That guy's got the right idea!" a staffer shouts to me on the way there. I'm tired, but it's nothing I can't handle. And now I'm in an air-conditioned bus, and I don't think the rest of the journey will be all that hard.

I step off the bus with the gaggle of spectators and a couple of fellow re-enactors, and then the hike really begins. What I figure will be a short hike through the battlefield to the camp becomes a long hike around half the perimeter of the battlefield, after I realize the bus can't stop any closer. Now I know why so many spectators are walking. But they're in shorts; I'm in wool. They're carrying maybe a chair, or a backpack. I'm lugging that case of Aquafina.

As I trudge through the morning march, the humidity attacks. I shift the water to more comfortable positions. A kind gentleman offers to carry one end of it for me. Then a lady offers the same after I make it past the battlefield bleachers and the food vendors. I have to pause. I have to rest.

Now, where are the rest of my fellow soldiers? I've gotten a location, but I need to find it. I plod on through the outskirts of the Yankee camp, where troops are already forming up and drilling. I don't like the looks of this. I can't be late. But I have to stop and rest while bottles of water fall out of the shrink-wrapped case as I soldier on. I puff. I pant. But I'm gonna make it.

I get to the crossroad where I think I'm supposed to be headed and encounter a provost.

"Do you know where Col. Scott's battalion is? Second Virginia?" I ask.

"What brigade," he answers.

"Stonewall Brigade."

"I think they just moved out."

My heart sinks, just as I'm sinking to my knees to regain some strength. But soon a friend spots me.

"Hey Christopher!" he greets. "We're right up here."

"I brought water for the cause," I say. "But I need to cool down."

"Great! We'll put that in the cooler and get some fresh for you."

"Private Francis!" our head commander greets.

"I need to cool down -- now," I say, sinking to the ground. Fellow soldiers take a look at me and see this is more than just a water-bottle job.

"Get some ice!" one says.

Within moments, a makeshift medical triage is placing ice on my forehead, down my neck, on key arteries, and anywhere else they think I need it. Someone delivers a bottle of Gatorade, and I begin gulping it down.

"Keep holding this," our medical expert tells me. "Let it stay on your arteries and cool your whole system down."

Unlike four years ago at Picacho Peak, I'm not nauseous or sick -- just way too hot, and probably way too tired. As I sit and soak up cool, another familiar face appears in the corner of my eye.

"Christopher, are you all right?" the Sergeant said.

"Yes. I just need to cool down."

"You have to get acclimated to this heat. We've been here for three days, and we're still getting acclimated to it. I don't think you should go out today. I know it's not fun sitting out, but it's not fun either if you're on the battlefield and you overheat."

Others agreed. "They've been taking people away in ambulances."

So day one will see me on the sidelines instead of the battle lines -- Picacho Peak all over again. I really should be in better shape, I tell myself. But I thought I was doing all right for awhile.

The only thing I will shoot this day is a pocket camera, capturing HD video of my 2nd Virginia compatriots as they come to the aid of Stonewall Jackson and the Confederacy. At least 1,000 people, likely more, are watching from the sidelines and the bleacher seats -- or under them -- as the Blue and Grey engage in what the public-address-system narrator calls a "gigantic rugby match." One side pushes, the other pushes back. Reinforcements come in. Lines advance. Lines retreat. Muskets crackle and pop in a chorus against an aria of artillery fire. More than an hour of this, and haze is all over the battlefield.

"You are getting a good idea of what a real Civil War battle would look like," the narrator observes for the crowd. "Multiply the sounds of the musket fire by four and you'll get an idea of just how many were out there." I know thousands of re-enactors are involved in this anniversary skirmish. I forget the exact count. But my eyes are trained on finding the 2nd Virginia. For most of the morning, they've stood and waited to go on, doing their best to stay cool and hydrated, with their jackets off until showtime. They're going in the second half of the battle -- a long time to wait, but worth it in the end.

From afar, I pick them out on a hill, as they blend in with the rest of the soldiers. They advance, fire, advance, and fire again. Historic combat is not for the impatient. I watch as they push to victory. Maybe they don't "give them the bayonet," as Jackson famously quoted, but they look sharp in battle from where I can see. And I wish I was with them, marching and firing, and savoring the victory. I wish I was praying with them afterwards, thanking them for GOD's protection. I can pray on my own, anytime. Among friends, however, the spiritual experience rises to another level.

I capture a few more pictures of them thanking the crowd before heading back to camp. All around, people ask how I'm feeling. Better, I say, but I'm still disappointed -- disappointed at not going out with them.

"You'll be with us tomorrow," my Colonel reassures. "Shouldn't have worn that coat and made the march on the double-quick."

"I had the water with me, too," I add, owning up to another tactical mistake. "But I didn't want to come into camp without helping you guys. I knew you'd need it."

"You were carrying water?" another soldier asks.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Oh, a 12-pack, I think." I can't remember.

"Was it a case?"

"Yeah."

They are grateful and appreciative, my fellow Confederates. They can sympathize with my disappointments and still encourage me on to victory. They are living life in the right perspective, loving the moment but not succumbing to it. They know they are not merely here to fire muskets. None of us are. And they are fighting their own battles against the 100-degree sticky heat.

"We're getting to to point now where you were this morning," one tells me.

Soldiers depart for cooler quarters after the camps are closed to the public. The gentlemen play cards while the ladies converse. The commanders sip a few light refreshments in honor of a successful campaign.

Our talented dulcimer player hammers out "Ashkotan Farewell," and I slip into a solo waltz, wishing Madame were here with me to see it, eyes tearing over this tale of longing and love. I still have something left in the tank for a dance.

"The question isn't, 'How did they do this?'" the battlefield narrator observed earlier, "but, 'Could I do that?'" I'm still not sure. Union, Confederate, Yankee, Rebel... allegiances don't seem to resonate on this day. What awes us is the stamina and bravery, the horrendous heat eclipsing the greater truth of men willing to die for their families, their livelihoods, their freedoms, and their nation.

Re-enactors get up at the end of the day and go back to their other lives and times. But within them -- at least the ones I march with -- is a deep reverence for the original people who fought this fight. It extends to the people fighting now, and those who will be in the next battles. It is patriotism by doing, supporting the troops by taking up the arms and tactics of their most celebrated confrontations. Appreciation flows from connecting with at least a tinge of the fear many people will never know.

"This is the big show," our commander observes about the size of this re-enactment compared to others we've been in. It's the Major Leagues. But we all know it's no "show," and it's not just for show, and our continuing orders are to make sure everyone who sees us realizes that in the end.

To Virginia!

2011-07-22T18:01:00.007-07:00

From Tucson to Manassas in 24 hours or less (preferably less):

3:40am: Wake. Still getting used to change in hours from a change in work assignment. Fortunately, I didn't have to produce last night's 10pm news.

4:15am: At work. Yes, work. Work before play. Work before battle. Yes, work can be a battle. That's why they call it work. Consume first cup of coffee.

4:30am-6:am: Run teleprompter for morning newscast. Sneak in more cups of coffee. Amazed that it is actually working. It must have come from the Fukujima plant.

6:30am: Caffeine in full force. Start working on noon show. Start grousing for a lead story.

7:30am: Good grief. Manassas will be hitting 100 degrees or more this weekend, and I will be wearing wool. The rest of the east coast is burning up. In Tucson, we call that typical.

8:00am: Bomb goes off in Oslo, Norway. I may have my lead.

9:00am: Still working, looking for more breaking news.

11:30am: Nothing much happening locally. But Norway is a mess right now. There's the lead.

Noon: Show time. Slip in a story on the Manassas heat. Anchor notes that I will be in the heat of battle this weekend.

12:45pm: Drive to Tucson International Airport. Grouse for cheap parking. Get it after two inspections of dodgy lots.

2:30pm: Board American Airlines after wolfing down a cheeseburger. TSA was kind to me -- they didn't pull me over for an enhanced pat-down.

3:45pm: Reading Matthew 16. Guy in the seat next to me is reading Plato's Republic. If I had more smarts, I'd debate with him what Plato would think of our Republic.

4:00pm: The plane has wi-fi, but you gotta pay $10 for it. Pass.

7:00pm: I've jumped two time zones, but the plane has arrived early at DFW -- a little too early. We have to wait for another plane to exit the gate before pulling in.

7:30pm: Need to change from Concourse A to Concourse C at DFW. Hope there's a good place to eat in the departing terminal.

7:50pm: Skype chat with the folks in California via the iPad. Way too cool. They aren't sending me video, but they can at least see me gobbling down a snack.

8:20pm: The plane that will take us to Washington is here. Our pilot is not. He will not be here for another 40 minutes. American Airlines says they will board us all so that the pilot will just have to step in and then will be on our way. Of course, it can't be that easy. Hopefully this pilot can fly fast like the last one. "Time to take a walk," says a passenger next to me. Good idea.

9:00pm: "That's not a carry-on, sir; that's a checked bag." Well, why didn't you folks tell me it was a checked bag in Tucson, after it fit into the sizing box and the overhead bin on the first flight? They insist on checking it. My delay to my hotel just got longer.

9:45pm: We're in the air at least an hour behind schedule.

10:00pm: Look for ways to contort body in airline seat to sleep comfortably on plane. Fail.

1:30am: Arrive at Dulles. Wait for 15 minutes for a tram to take us to the baggage claim.

1:45am: A line of people, your humble servant included, board a shuttle bus for Hertz. When we arrive, one person is working the counter, as expected for this time of night, and he apologizes because he's having computer problems. "Tell me this isn't a government operation," I say to a lady next to me, parroting a line from Apollo 13. "The government would be more efficient," she replies.

2:10am: After a prayer behind the wheel of a Toyota Yaris, I head off for Manassas. I don't make the mistake I made two years ago and end up on a toll road without change.

2:30am: Arrive at the hotel, which is undergoing renovation and sharing parking spaces with several large dumpsters, leaving nothing for me, after all the other guests are bedded down for the night. After a fruitless search, I park at the Cracker Barrel across the street.

2:45am: Nobody is at the front desk, but amazingly, my room key is sitting there, along with my pass bracelet to get me through to tomorrow's event. Goodnight and GOD Bless the hospitality staff.

Reel To Reel: Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows: Part 2

2011-07-17T19:15:00.000-07:00

It all comes down to this.

Going Rate: Worth full price
Starring: Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson, Helena Bonham Carter, Ralph Fiennes, Michael Gambon, Alan Rickman, Robbie Coltrane
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Dark fantasy violence, one mild profanity

Oh Harry, how you've grown up. In 2001, when Harry Potter And The Sorcerer's Stone made it to the big screen, it played like a coming-of-age Wizard Of Oz, only a bit darker. Now, nearly 10 years later, we've watched Harry (Radcliffe) and his pals Ron (Grint) and Hermoine (Watson) grow up both in the movie saga and in real life. They're not cute little wizards and witches anymore. They're adults with the world upon their shoulders, and you can feel it all through the final chapter of the eight-film series.

In order to defeat the evil Lord Voldemort (Fiennes), Harry and company must finish the job from Part 1: destroying a series of objects called Holcruxes that give the evil one his invincibility. These things are hidden away in different places, but amazingly, none of them are outside England. I wonder why the dark one didn't think about that. Then again, Voldemort mysteriously doesn't have the ability to give himself a decent nose job. Hogwart's School for Witchcraft and Wizardry resembles a prison camp now that Servus Snape (Rickman) has taken over as headmaster. We're still not completely clear where his allegiances lie, but you'll soon have your answer.

I kept comparing the final Potter to the final installment of Star Wars. The pacing of this film reminded me more of a suspense-thriller than an action fantasy. These characters talk a lot. They brood. They flirt with death more times than any reasonable person would tolerate. Return Of The Jedi was dark in places, but with an overlay of hope: would Darth Vader find the good within him? With Voldemort, we have no such hope. He's bad to the bone. Our main question is whether Harry will live or die trying to save the world from him.

All of this is pretty heavy stuff for young children. But like the characters they love, they have grown up too, and as everyone comes of age together, all of the material matures. HP7: 2 is no kids' movie, even though marketing might steer it that way. And I'm glad it's no Twilight, either, even though there's a splash of romance.

Without spoiling the ending, let's just say the film leaves itself an out for another edition. I'm sure Hollywood will push for it, given the gigantic money flowing into the coffers from this saga.

To Hack With It

2011-07-09T16:15:00.000-07:00

Media tycoon Rupert Murdoch is closing down London's 168-year-old News Of The World after a phone-hacking scandal. Reporters broke into voicemail accounts of soldiers and dead children -- among some 4,000 people -- looking for nuggets they could blow up into headlines. As I go to press this afternoon, at least three people have been arrested in connection with the scandal. The paper's chief executive, Rebekah Brooks, faces questioning by police investigators over what she knew and when she knew it, but she hasn't been fired, and her bosses have waved off her offers to resign.

I can believe the defense that the hacking was limited to a limited number of unethical reporters, but I'm not willing to let Brooks off the hook. At KOLD News 13, when somebody comes up with sensitive information, our bosses know about it, and they know where that information came from. We have anonymous tipsters. We have confidential sources. We have viewers who love watching Dan Marries, Heather Rowe, Chuck George, Scott Kilbury, Kayna Whitworth, Mindy Blake, Erin Jordan, Mark Stine, Teresa Jun, and the rest of the gang, and they want us to beat the competition with their inside info. We have Twitter and Facebook friends helping us cover the news. We don't need to hack phone mails. We would never dream of doing that. Our News Directors and General Managers have made it clear, even if it would give us competitive advantage.

That's why the News did it. Britain's tabloid industry is thriving and ultra-competitive. Rupert's weekly wanted to win at all costs, and it ultimately sold its soul. Now it's rotting in publishing's Hades. Murdoch didn't believe the paper was too big or too old to fail, but I don't believe he killed it as a public gesture of humility. I believe he killed it to make nice with British regulators as he tries to protect and expand his media empire.

In doing so, people at the News who had nothing to do with this scandal are without jobs. At the same time, I wonder why they chose to work for the paper in the first place, given that it had a dubious reputation long before the hacking. We all gotta have jobs, but there are TV stations (which I won't mention) I would never work for if I valued my career, or more importantly, my relationship with GOD.

Jeff Jarvis of BuzzMachine offers some deeper insight on the scandal and privacy rights here.

Jury Duty

2011-07-09T15:35:00.001-07:00

The rage and grumbling over the verdicts in the Casey Anthony trial should remind us all why sworn jurors decide guilt or non-guilt, not the news channels, not the bloggers, not the crowds outside the courthouse, and especially not Nancy (Dis)Grace. In the jury room, the standard for proof is "beyond a reasonable doubt." Everywhere else, the standard is whatever we want it to be, mostly "guilty until proven innocent."

Prosecutors had holes in their case. Anthony had a first-rate lawyer. Admit it: when you hire an attorney to defend you in a criminal trial, you want that legal eagle to get you off -- not present a spirited defense, but get you off. Richard McFaddin, a Kansas City defense attorney who successfully defended notorious "town bully" Ken Rex McElroy against 20 of 21 felony charges, admitted he was a "hired gun," a person paid to help his clients beat the rap.

"Yeah, but I'm innocent. Casey is guilty as sin!"

Perhaps. But trials aren't about what really happened, they're about what you can prove -- beyond a reasonable doubt. Suspicions are not admissible as evidence. Nancy (Dis)Grace is not representing the state. Gut feelings do not tilt the scale towards conviction. "Not Guilty" does not mean innocent. It often means, "Not Proven."

Ironically, so many of us think we're smarter than that knuckleheaded Casey Anthony jury, yet so few of us actually are willing to serve on a jury. My employer, thankfully, is supportive of jury service, even though working journalists have nary a chance of surviving voir dire. Federal Law requires employers to support jury service. We shouldn't have to make excuses or fear for our jobs.

Justice is not beautiful, clear-cut, or convenient. If we are not teaching this in our government classes, our understanding of civics is even more abysmal than I thought. And if we are going to hate on jurors for deciding a case based on facts, standards and instructions rather than mob mentality... then we should be praying for GOD to help us all.

From The Logs Of Captain Bartholomew Burgundy

2011-07-03T22:36:00.002-07:00

It took nearly a month to sort things out, but I can finally reveal the contents of a bottle sent to me by Captain Bartholomew Burgundy containing several pictures from last month's Buccaneer Ball.

Unfortunately, water leaking into the bottle washed out the good captain's notes, so I'm forced to add my own commentary. I could wait until he returns to port, but I don't want to delay things any longer.

Captain Burgundy and his esteemed lady friend, Madame Noire, posing for a pre-ball memento. Notice the charming glow from her countenance. I gather she is most happy to see and dance with him once more after more than a year at sea.

A tribute to America before the festivities begin. Captain Burgundy may serve England, but he's the most patriotic privateer I've ever seen.

Three cheers for the USA! HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!

As always, a procession kicks off the merriment. From the way Captain Burgundy holds his lady's hand, it looks like he has spent much time in the ballrooms of Europe. One wouldn't expect such courtly gestures from a scurvy knave. Of course, Burgundy was never that. I also notice he's wearing a different weskit (vest) this time around, polishing up his act.

A circle dance, a time to prance, for the ball, one and all.

HUZZAH!

Captain Burgundy didn't include many photos of the livelier dances, but I suspect that was by design. Here we see him showing off more of his courtly dancing with his favorite partner. I hear he enjoys the minuet immensely. I'm not sure if that's what he's dancing here, but it's certainly something graceful to honor Madame.

Gentleman that he is, he saves a few dances for other ladies.

And of course, he practices his honors.

I'm beginning to think Captain Burgundy isn't even a privateer, much less a pirate. How can someone who enjoys dancing so much be an effective raider of Spanish ships? I'll have to ask him the next time I see him. For now, realize he was surrounded by many ruffians and knaves who had a Jolly Rodger's good time, and you can see more pictures of them here, including a curious cover of Buccaneer's Quarterly which shows the Good Captain facing a bit of, well, trouble on board.

Reel To Reel: Super 8

2011-07-02T01:28:00.000-07:00

Close encounters of the Kodachrome kind.

Going Rate: Worth full price
Starring: Kyle Chandler, Elle Fanning
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Language, sci-fi violence, some gross scenes

Producer Stephen Spielberg had to see a little of himself in this film, which he produced for writer and director J.J. Abrams. Make that a lot of himself. It's Close Encounters Of The Third Kind mashed up with The Goonies and multiplied by Cloverfield. Spielberg has to be reliving the aspirations of his youth set off when he saw Lawrence of Arabia and knew he wanted to direct.

I can't remember anybody making Super 8 independent films when I was in junior high. By 1979, when this movie takes place, my gadget-loving father had already ditched our Elmo 8mm sound camera for a weighty Quasar VHS portable. It threatened to put grooves in his shoulders, and it cost a small fortune, but you didn't have to develop anything, and you didn't have to worry about shooting tight. So please forgive me if I find the concept of a bunch of 1979 youngsters focused enough to make a zombie-horror film with "production value" a bit beyond my grasp. I wonder how many kids know what production value means. I also puzzle how a kid from a large rambunctious family acquires enough money, skill, and quiet time to learn old-fashioned film editing. That could be a movie in itself.

But back to the movie I'm reviewing. It opens in a small Ohio town which has just lost a worker in a factory accident. The victim is the mother of Joe Lamb (Jason Courtney), who withdraws into a cold existence. His father Jackson (Chandler), a deputy sheriff, doesn't know much about parenting. He would rather shove the boy off to camp than let him help his friend Charles' (Riley Griffiths) moviemaking efforts for a film festival. Joe and Charles and their buddies are a studio in sneakers, complete with sound, make-up and special effects departments. I bet you they even know about three-point lighting.

As the kids are filming a scene at a train station, they unwittingly become witnesses to a massive derailment, and it's the most spectacular one I've seen on film since The Fugitive. What's more, in one of those derailed cars is some kind of mysterious payload. Once it's unleashed, strange things start happening all over town, making the kids' horror flick look like a family movie. As you would expect, the military moves in and starts covering things up, leading to the inevitable quest to learn the truth.

It's very easy to let a film full of kids get loud and out of control by themselves, without any effects work. Director J.J. Abrams keeps this from happening, though, and the film becomes a creepy, effective thriller until it hits a sentimental moment that evokes memories of another Spielberg film. I dare not say which one.

Overall, though, I highly enjoyed Super 8 and its love of, well, sci-fi movies. Abrams and Spielberg wouldn't have come together on this movie if they didn't feel a need to create a kind of entertainment that honored their roots. This film does a fine job.

As a bonus, Paramount and Apple have released a Super 8 app for iPhones, iPods, and iPads that lets you make digital movies with the retro look of those old home cameras. Neat stuff!

Reel To Reel: Cars 2

2011-07-02T00:37:00.001-07:00

We're running a little hot tonight.

Going Rate: Worth full price (3D not necessary)
Starring: Voices Of: Owen Wilson, Larry The Cable Guy, Michael Caine, Eddie Izzard, Emily Mortimer, John Turturro
Rated: G (but may be too intense for younger children)
Red Flags: Cartoon action gunshots, some mild toilet humor

The original Cars took the idea of an alternate motor-personified universe and made it fun and nostalgic. The sequel expands on that idea and runs around the world with it, producing a film that's visually exciting even if it's not always heartwarming. Cars 2 is a tribute to James Bond's Aston Martin, a salute to imports, and a loving tweak of two notorious clunkers, both made by the now-defunct American Motors Corporation: the dreaded Pacer and Gremlin. I think I also spotted a Pinto in there somewhere.

Our hero from the first film, Lightning McQueen (Wilson) is back home in Radiator Springs, Arizona (loosely related to Peach Springs, Arizona, somewhere north of I-40 near Kingman, in case you forgot). He's resting his wheels after a winning streak on the racetrack, only to face a new racing challenge: Sir Miles Axelrod (Izzard) has come up with a clean, green fuel, and he wants to show it off in a series of international races. When Italian formula-one Francesco Bernoulli (Turturro) taunts McQueen for sitting the series out, tow-truck pal Mater (Larry) jumps to McQueen's defense, and the Piston Cup champ decides to put his R&R on hold.

As McQueen and Mater head off to start the series, skullduggery -- or, motorduggery -- is afoot. British spy car agent Finn McMissile (Caine) picks up on a secret weapon in development by a gang of thug clunkers headed up by Professor Z (Thomas Kretschmann). McMissile, who has enough gadgets and toys to make Bond's ride jealous, hooks up with fellow operative Holly Shiftwell (Mortimer) in Japan to receive a secret device from an American agent. The operation goes sideways, and the agent ends up slipping the device onto the undercarriage of Mater. That sets off an espionage thriller suitable for Spy Kids audiences but nuanced enough for adults to enjoy -- the Pixar touch.

It's Mater who has to carry this film as he takes his bumbling stick-shifter-from-the-sticks act on the road as a involuntary secret agent. This could get very old, very fast, if it wasn't for the chemistry among Mater, McMissile and Shiftwell. The film also takes us to car-populated Japan, Italy and England, which are full of colorful riffs on familiar people and places. You have to admire director John Lassiter's love of automobiles; he finds personalities in oodles of makes and models and matches them to the characters flawlessly. Even the Pope and the Queen of England get customized rides in Lassiter's universe.

The original Cars was a parable about friendship. So is this one, but not as heavily. It mainly just wants to race and have fun, and what's wrong with that? Not Pixar enough? I think that's the main problem people will have with this film. Let us not forget, though, that Pixar remains Hollywood's most consistent hit factory. They have yet to release a bona-fide clunker. That's more than I can say for the auto industry.

Hey Dad, It Flies!

2011-06-19T00:01:00.076-07:00

My brother and I briefly flirted with model rocketry back in 1986, several months after the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, and not too long after a visit to NASA's Kennedy Space Center. Dad bought us both a starter kit from Estes, consisting of an easy-to-assemble rocket, launch base, igniters and a couple of engines. The starter rocket came together easily at the kitchen table. The pre-made plastic tail assembly spared us from messing with glue and triangulating all three fins in their proper locations.

"Watch out for those o-rings," Mother said, referring to Challenger's fatal flaw.

For our launch area, we picked a field behind Raytown, Missouri's Robinson Elementary, home to a baseball diamond, a couple of soccer fields, and now, three amateur rocketeers. October Sky it wasn't. Neither was it the Fourth of July. These were no bottle rockets, which tend to explode on the pad just seconds after they're lit. Our launch devices each consisted of a guide rod on a tripod base wired to a battery-powered ignition button several feet away. A key-activated lamp signaled all systems were go. All we had to do was push and play.

Model rocket igniters are not up to NASA standards. You insert the engine into the rocket's tail, and then you carefully insert the igniter, which is connected with a pair of alligator clips. If all goes well, we have liftoff. But many times that igniter burns in half and it's back to the pad for troubleshooting. Still, it beats using a lighter and a punk.

We had success from the get-go: at least two successful launches after at least a couple of misfires. Then came recovery. Model rocket engines include an ejection charge in the top which pushes out a parachute (or sometimes just a plastic ribbon), and the challenge is to get under the spacecraft before it gets snagged in the trees.

I made my second launch of the day using a basic engine -- low altitude, no frills. It shot up high enough to satisfy my expectations, but then the wind caught hold of it. That first rocket drifted into the tree line and never dropped through it.

Dad observed the disaster. "I'll get you another one," he said without hesitation.

I went on to build at least two more rockets, even getting to launch one of them in Physical Science class during my freshman year at Raytown South High School. I earned some easy extra credit points for providing my own launcher. Thanks, Dad!

Model rockets, by the way, are very cheap to build. Ten bucks will get you something you can launch over and over. Forty dollars will set you up with a complete kit. That's about what a family spends for a movie night out, including refreshments and gas.

We never returned to the grassy fields of Robinson, and I never built another rocket after 9th Grade, but the legend, as people say, lives on.

And if you have a red-and-white model rocket you found by the ball field near Robinson School, may I have it back, please?

Those Darned Activist Judges

2011-06-13T16:35:00.000-07:00

Last week, while wildfires and talk of one congressman's private parts dominated the news cycle, the Supreme Court issued an opinion [PDF] clarifying the Armed Career Criminal Act. The majority ruling says using a vehicle to flee from police counts as a "violent felony" under the act, which is targeted at curbing repeat offenders. I was struck, however, by Justice Antonin Scalia's dissent, which reads in part:

We face a Congress that puts forth an ever-increasing volume of laws in general, and of criminal laws in particular. It should be no surprise that as the volume increases, so do the number of imprecise laws. And no surprise that our indulgence of imprecisions that violate the Constitution encourages imprecisions that violate the Constitution. Fuzzy, leave-the-details-to-be-sorted-out-by-the-courts legislation is attractive to the Congressman who wants credit for addressing a national problem but does not have the time (or perhaps the votes) to grapple with the nitty-gritty. In the field of criminal law, at least, it is time to call a halt.

So here we have Justice Scalia calling out Congress for passing flawed laws that courts have to clean up later. The delicious irony is that this undercuts Conservative arias -- which Scalia and his right-wing brethren have sung many times before -- against judicial activism. Here, Justice Scalia says the problem seems to be Congressional activism, which is where it all begins in the first place.

So what's it gonna be? Either Congress passes more precise, Constitutionally-sound laws (and actually reading the full text of those laws would be a good start), or judges have no choice but to continue their custodial duties. Those folks in the black robes who have to deal with a stack of cases arising from flaws or omissions some lawmaker didn't have the time or stones to address don't deserve the scarlet "A" for "Activist."

(Tricorn tip to SCOTUSblog for alerting me to this.)

The Pirate Prom

2011-06-10T23:25:00.003-07:00

And finally this week, I have to show you this clip, which answers the question, "Suppose a group of pirates held a prom?"

The Plundering Pirates of Paradise did, and they came up with a night of eclectic dancing that included salsa, disco, and a Virginia Reel.

I can't say we'll be doing the Electric Slide at the Buccaneer's Ball, but you can count on a jig... or maybe two.

Dance on!

The Pirate Crashers

2011-06-09T23:45:00.004-07:00

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, or so we're told. But then I came across this video snippet from a wedding reception at Treasure Island in Vegas (only they call it "TI" now). What follows is an anachronistic display of old circle dance to modern tunes. Furthermore, the YouTube uploader says the pirates weren't officially invited to the ceremony.

You were warned. Hit it.

Jack Be Nimble?

2011-06-08T23:35:00.005-07:00

If someone had staged Pirates Of The Caribbean as a contemporary ballet, perhaps it might have looked like this noble attempt, staged at the Mid Valley Mega Mall... wherever that is.

But I prefer the Pirates of Penzance, Gilbert & Sullivan's classic. This clip features Kevin Cline:

Eat your heart out, Jack Sparrow!

New Kids On The Ship

2011-06-07T23:20:00.005-07:00

Now in our celebration of piratical prancing preceding the Buccaneer's Ball venture to the Western Pacific, where we find some Korean buccaneers have created that new teen-heartthrob sensation: The Backwater Boys.

The Boat Is Rockin', So Don't Bother Knockin'

2011-06-06T23:40:00.008-07:00

You wouldn't think a bunch of mangy seafarers would have enough discipline to pull off an interpretive display of movement, would you?

I don't know the name of this group from Dover, but they defy the averages:

Ditto for this group, the Arts In Motion Irish Dance Class:

I'm sure we'll see some inspired jigs at the Buccaneer's Ball!

Do A Little Dance, Raid A Little Ship, Get Down Tonight

2011-06-05T23:40:00.014-07:00

Ahoy! With the Buccaneer's Ball quickly approaching, it's time for another week of dance tributes to pirates.

We know that some of them were gentlemen, but many weren't. We also know that their fleetness of foot did not lend itself well to artistic purposes, beyond jigging and maybe a few reels.

But this bunch, the Oak Mountain Craftsmen, can really shake their booty!

And for an encore, have you ever seen a pirate break dance?

Oh to be on stage and be swooned at by a giddy group of young ladies... but that's off topic.

Reel To Reel: X-Men: First Class

2011-06-05T17:23:00.000-07:00

Groovy powers, baby!

Going Rate: Worth matinee price
Starring: James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender, Kevin Bacon, Rose Byrne, Jennifer Lawrence
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Action violence, mild profanity, some mild sexuality

My admiration of the X-Men franchise comes not from its action but from its altruism. Its world of mutants vs. humans illuminates the nature of prejudice and xenophobia. It raises tough questions about terrorist threats versus individual liberties and gives the brain plenty to chew on.

This prequel delves into that somewhat, but its main fascination is tinkering with one of the scariest chapters in American history: the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, which drove the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. to the brink of nuclear war. X-Men: First Class retools it as a covert showdown involving maniacal mutants set on annihilating normal humanity so mutants can rule over it, uninhibited by prejudices, governments, or well, just about anything else.

The picture opens in the middle of another dark historical chapter: the roundup of Jews in Nazi Germany. A young Magneto, Erik (Fassbender), sees his mother being herded into a concentration camp and notices, in his anger, he can bend the gate that is closing behind her. The Nazis capitalize on his power and begin to refine it. Meanwhile in England, Young Professor X Charles Xavier (McAvoy) notices there's a stranger in the kitchen who looks like his mother. Only it's not his mother, it's the shape-shifting blue bombshell Raven (Lawrence). And Charles can tell just by reading her mind.

The young Xavier grows up to be a hip professor in 1960's London, authoring theses on mutation and cruising chicks in a way Austin Powers would love. This whole film at times reminded me of a mash-up between the Austin Powers movies and Mad Men, with a bit of The Avengers thrown in. A CIA operative comes to Xavier for help when she notices plans for world domination forming in the back room of a Las Vegas club. They involve a high-ranking U.S. officer and a devilish creature who can disappear into thin air in the blink of an eye. Erik is on his own mission, setting out to kill the Nazi doctor Sebastian Shaw (Bacon) who built up his metal-warping skills while killing his mother.

These two missions come together, and so do Charles and Erik in a tenuous friendship laced with questions about men versus mutants. Will mutants be ultimately feared or accepted? Will the be assimilated into society or exterminated? Along the way, we're introduced to several new mutants, including one who can evolve on the spot and an oversized dragonfly. They will team up with Charles to form a squad charged with saving the world. Not bad for a first assignment.

I liked the picture's 60's vibe, and I liked its balancing of ideology and action. It's not at the level of Batman Begins, but it's there, and it's palpable. The film leaves some more room for development down the line, and I'm sure we'll see another sequel or spin-off film. Hugh Jackman, by the way, makes a brief cameo as Wolverine. But don't expect much.

X-Men: First Class is satisfying in that it makes you want more. You know that these characters will grow up, grow older, and become more interesting over time. Then again, you've already seen the four other pictures and know what happened. Yet Hollywood can re-do established film series in a short time frame, as it did with Batman and will soon do with Spider-Man. Comic books truly do exist in a world of their own.

Just Run, Already

2011-05-31T00:52:00.001-07:00

Dear Mrs. Sarah Palin,

Watching your bus tour and photo-ops and the buzz that surround them, and reading you answer "Don't know," when people ask if you're running for president reminds me of a scene from the closing minutes of The Godfather: Michael Corleone is confronting the traitor Carlo when he says, "Don't tell me you're innocent, because it insults my intelligence."

Sarah -- you don't mind if I call you Sarah, do you? -- we all know what you're doing. We all know how the game is played in Washington. Your assertion that you don't know if you're running has about as much authenticity as a copy of Das Capital autographed by Margaret Thatcher.

Sarah, it's time to grizzly up and say you're running. No more claims that your campaign bus isn't a campaign bus. No bob and weave around the press. You're touring like a candidate. You're planning to hit Iowa. It's not a listening tour, it's not a unity tour, it's not a rolling pep rally for the GOP. It's the start of a campaign.

But we know why you want it this way. This non-campaign campaign gives you an exit strategy. It's an easy way to bail when the polls don't come around and the competition gets too tough. You can always claim you were never campaigning in the first place, and technically, you're right. And as a bonus, because you're not a real candidate, you don't have to answer real questions from real reporters, including the ones you like at Fox News. Really, though, since when did you worry so much about the "lame-stream media?" Or, as I contend, is Fox part of it now?

What are you afraid of? A year and a half is forever in campaign time. It's plenty of days to build and organize and woo those moderates and independents you can't stand, even though you'll never publicly admit you can't. And what can you do to your image that Tina Fey and Katie Couric haven't done already? (Katie's off the tube for now, by the way.)

Making it official now also provides you with competitive advantages. Once you're in, you'll eclipse the early birds -- Pawlenty and Bachmann and Gingrich and Cain and Paul -- and overshadow the leaders. You'll begin to thin the herd and save yourself some headaches once we head into primary season early next year, but you have to commit.

You and I know politics is no game for the meek, and championship politics can't be won on assumptions. You're becoming dependent on your base, as if you're expecting a coronation once you announce, either because you think you can grab the nomination or the GOP thinks it's committing campaignicide if it doesn't give it to you. Learn from the experience of your adversary Hillary Clinton: nothing comes on a platter in Washington except people's heads.

So it's your call, your mission if you're willing to accept it. I think you are, but it's the fallback position that's killing you. After John McCain, you refused to go into the sunset, even though it would've been the safe thing to do. If you're tough enough to keep your name in play, you can put your hat in the ring.

The Unknown Hero

2011-05-29T16:54:00.000-07:00

I never asked my Grandfather Francis what he did in World War II. At most, I knew he was stationed in Egypt, and he told me about the incessant grumpiness of camels. He used to show me a Bible he'd bought in Jerusalem, and I thought it odd it was written in English instead of Hebrew. When I explored ham radio and teletype over the shortwave bands, he used to tell me about how used logarithms to figure out how to tune in a signal.

After he passed away in 1999, I learned the story I wished he would've told me. He had been involved in cryptography, working with the people who had the Enigma machine to decipher enemy secrets that would guide Allied Forces to victory. My dad says Grandpa couldn't talk in depth about the specifics of his service, even 50 years after the fall of the Third Reich. Still, I would have liked to have given it a try, chronicled it somehow. Perhaps there was a memoir in it.

Instead I have to be content with the memories of a chilly December morning after Christmas, standing beside his his casket, when the VFW post handed an American Flag to my parents, and a gun salute ripped apart the silence. I knew Grandfather Francis as "Grandpa," not the war hero. That's my lasting regret.

I'm grateful for the Veterans History Project and similar efforts to collect the words of our World War II veterans before they're gone. They're succeeding where I failed. The government estimates, but cannot prove with certainty, 1,100 WWII veterans die every day. The exact number is irrelevant; they won't be on this earth for much longer.

I can only pray Grandpa can see, from wherever he is, that his eldest grandson dons the uniform of Patriot soldier every so often and tries his best to inspire those around him to love their heritage and their country as much as he did.

Civility In Progress

2011-05-29T16:10:00.000-07:00

Pleading for civility in politics degrades into a Sisyphean effort, but every now and then I see a wee bit of promise. The National Institute for Civil Discourse, formed in Tucson in the aftermath of the January 8th shootings, is slowly but steadily coming together.

I'm not expecting miracles, even though they've been known to happen. But what bothers me is this: with all that's happening in Tucson, what's going in Washington? Or maybe the question is, what will happen? I'll withhold any further commentary for now.

But next January, as we mark the one-year milestone of the shooting rampage and mourn the dead, I hope I do not have to lament a stalled-out effort and look upon a Washington that hasn't learned anything.

Reel To Reel: Pirates Of The Caribbean: On Stranger Tides

2011-05-22T21:26:00.001-07:00

"Captain Jack will get you by tonight, and take you to your special island..."

Going Rate: Worth matinee price, without 3D.
Starring: Johnny Depp, Penélope Cruz, Ian McShane
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Ye Olde Pirate Violence & Swordplay, Some Scary Supernatural Effects

Joining us once again on this edition of Reel To Reel is our resident privateer, Captain Bartholomew Burgundy, to give us additional insight on the latest Pirates Of The Caribbean movie, a franchise both of us thought had ended one picture ago. Director Rob Marshall is taking the wheel from Gore Verbinski, but Johnny Depp is back as Captain Jack Sparrow, so let's see what happens. Captain Burgundy, you have the deck.

Thank ye kindly, mate. I 'ave to say quite plainly tha' if ye seeking a swashbucklin' pirate film, well, ye got one. Ye got Cap'n Jack, ye got Barbossa (that be Geoffrey Rush), ye got a search f' treasure, and ye got an all-star pirate, Edward Teach, who's known to ye landlubbers as Blackbeard.

I really don' need t' say much about th' plot, because everybody's after the same thin': th' Fountain o' Youth. But ye see, it ain' as simple as just findin' th' fountain, righ', because they also gotta fin' several things tha' make 't work, like a couple of chalices an' a mermaid's tear. How's tha' for a shoppin' list?

Anyhow, Capt. Jack ends up 'n th' unlikely service of Blackbeard after trackin' down a lady who's masqueradin' as 'im to pu' a crew together. This lady known as Angelica (who be Penelope Cruz) also 'appens to be someone he'd 'ad a fling wit'. So ye got a complication there. I always warn me prospectiv' privateers never to mix work an' love.

Speaking of privateers, Barbossa has gone legit, in service to a fashionably portly King George II, and a whole lot of British sailors and officers who are mainly along for the ride. Obviously, Captain, you know that has benefits, namely the support of the Crown and a better wardrobe. And you get to loot for benefit of King and Country.

GOD save th' king! Aye, you're right. But I foun' something quite curious. Th' Spaniards ar' involved 'n this pursuit, an' they seem to, as ye would say in modern vernacular, fly under th' radar. They have all these ships 'n sailors an' commanders, and nobody seems t' want t' attack them, even when His Majesty's Navy 'as 'em dead in sight fer a broadside. I tell ye' they would never slip away, 'f I had command of a fleet. Instead, everyone else be busy fightin' each other here 'n there 'n everywhere.

I felt that way, too. The more I watched this film, the more I got the feeling it was conceived as five or six big action sequences duck-taped together with some dialogue and Johnny Depp sauntering about. By the way, how many British regulars does it take to capture Jack Sparrow? That sounds like the first line to a joke, and you're right. A sequence at the beginning of the movie shows them more like Keystone Kops than seasoned soldiers of a mighty empire as Captain Jack gets away from them -- again -- in such convoluted and incompetent fashion that it should win the Rube Goldberg Prize for Escape Scenes. General Washington would laugh at these ridiculous redcoats.

Well 't is just a movie, mind ye. Bu' what bothers me is that we 'ave so many supernatural elements 'n this film. Take Cap'n Blackbeard. Somehow, e's got this magic sword tha' can fill th' sails of the Queen Anne's Revenge with win' and comman' the ropes t' tie 'up any mutineers. Blimey, where does 'e get such wonderful toys? I sure neva 'eard of a sword, nay even a cutlass like 'at. From wha' I know, the real Blackbeard never 'ad t' worry 'bout mutiny, either, on accoun' he commanded s' much respect from 'is crew. Bu' here, I see most'a 'is crew swabbin' th' deck, an' he got 'is officers zombified or somethin'. An' di' I tell ye he knows voodoo, too? Talk about ye artistic license! I know Blackbeard, an' tha' ain' Blackbeard.

No, it's not. But we both know legends tend to impede upon the truth, which brings us to another problem with this film: the mermaids. Okay, they're beautiful, even if none of them look like Darryl Hannah. They lure you in and spout fangs like vampires once they've got you -- I wonder if somebody actually researched the fang bit or just decided to throw in something for Twilight fans.

It's hard to get tears out of mermaid, we're told, and I guess exposing them to onions doesn't work, so the writers had to add a throwaway romance between the mermaid Syrena (Astrid Berges-Frisbey) and Philip (Sam Claflin), a captured missionary on Blackbeard's boat.

Truth be told, I didn't really buy any romantic overtures between Jack and Angelica, either, because Jack only uses ladies to further his own cause. Captain Burgundy, I do believe you once said you thought Jack was a gentleman at heart.

I know. An' I'm walkin' that statemen' back. Bu' what leaves me scratchin' me cocked hat is how the cap'n can swing 'n swordfight 'is way outa anythin' and yet he's always walkin' like 'es under the gin tipsy.

We don't see anything new or original about Jack, which is just the way audiences want it: a flamboyant pirate strutting around. But, Captain, I imagine you can relate to people calling you flamboyant with your red stockings and big tricorn.

Aye, I 'ave been called a fop 'n mo' than one occasion. But 'tis me, 'tis th' way GOD made me.

Nothing wrong with that. Getting back to the movie, though, with all its issues, is it something we should be plunking down hard-earned booty for?

If 'ye enjoyed th' fir' three pictures, aye. But I wouldn' shell ou' extra fer tha' 3-D. I don' see th' point of it.

Neither do I. I think Disney should've quit with the trilogy, but it won't as long as it keeps earning the booty. Disney has done quite well with this franchise, certainly better than its other films based on its theme-park rides: Haunted Mansion and The Country Bears. I wouldn't rule out a fifth installment.

So, sword up or down on this one?

Sword up, but just barely. I woul' love t' see a pirate film mo' faithful t' history.

I agree. I give it a marginal sword up, or maybe sword level. As far as history goes, one thing I did enjoy was seeing the wonderful 18th century costumes of the English townspeople and regulars. No detail was spared, head to toe.

Ye thinkin' about a wig?

Maybe.

What Was Once Normal

2011-05-11T01:56:00.000-07:00

I'm beginning to wonder if Tucson will ever see a normal meeting of the Tucson Unified School District board ever again. This week's edition came refreshingly free of mob scenes, lines of police and general boorishness... mostly.

What is incomprehensible to me is how the student protesters supporting Ethnic Studies think scenes of them chaining themselves to the board members' chairs are going to help win over the state officials who are convinced the courses on Mexican-American studies foment hate. Allegations of police brutality or not, it just doesn't look good, and in public relations, controlling perception is the goal. I think of the last line in the movie The Social Network, directed at Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg: "You're not an [expletive], Mark. You're just trying so hard to be." Perhaps somebody needs to say that, in love, to some of the Ethnic Studies defenders.

I have heard the counter-argument: TUSD repeatedly ignored them, ignored their concerns. Perhaps. But that's life sometimes, and that's the educator-student dynamic. The students aren't running the board. Some of you will want to equate the Ethnic Studies protests to some chapter from the civil rights movement of the 1960's. Please don't go there. In 1960, when four black students sat at a white lunch counter at Woolworth's in Greensboro, North Carolina, they didn't chain themselves to the stools. They didn't chant. They didn't shout. They just ordered food... which employees refused to serve. Later, as the sit-in swelled, some read books. The sit-in movement spread to other parts of the segregated south and remained mostly peaceful. Nearly six months later, Woolworth's abandoned segregated lunch counters. Nonviolent, non-jerk resistance works if you give it a chance, but we have an instant-gratification generation unwilling to work the program.

We heard calls for civility in the aftermath of the Tucson mass shooting. So much for that. We can't let go of our self-destructive passions.

Regular Feedings

2011-05-08T00:40:00.043-07:00

Every time I go home to California, I know I'll gain at least five pounds over the course of a week. I eat better at home than I ever do on my own, and that's largely because of Mother's refusal to see me get any thinner. Brother Michael used to joke about Mom "pushing food" when we were younger. It didn't change when we grew up.

"Do you want a salad with that?"

"Do you want some cookies?"

"Do you want some ice cream?"

I hardly leave the table less than full. Fortunately the big comfy family room couch is less than a foot away from the kitchen table, ready to accept my vacationing self. At this stage of her life, Mom is glad to see me anywhere around the house, even if I'm merely taking up space.

Dad requires a different approach. We can't seem to reduce his appetite, but we can re-channel it.

"I'm making your father some lowfat brownies."

Dad still fills up and doesn't miss dessert, and we don't kid him as much about his weight anymore.

"Are you getting hungry, Christopher?"

She'll see me digging in the fridge for cheese slices and start gauging my appetite.

"Give me about a half hour," I'll reply. By then I'm ravenous. And then I can lap something up in the blink of an eye.

When I lived in Texas and flew back to my parents' old home in St. Louis, they took me straight from Lambert Field to Steak 'n Shake one time.

"Christopher, I think you inhaled that hamburger," Mother observed.

"I was hungry," I replied, wondering why people were surprised at the lack of any filling meal on the two-hop journey from McAllen to Missouri.

Still, Mom worries about my weight. I sent her a Mother's Day card a few years back with a penguin on the front. "Poppo The Penguin wishes you a Happy Mother's Day," it said before you opened it up to reveal a salivating polar bear with the punchline, "but he wishes he'd taken his mother's advice and eaten more!"

"Yes, you need to eat more," Mom replied over the phone.

Gotcha!

2011-05-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

Osama Bin Laden is dead. Does this wipe out Al Qaida? Does this end terrorism?

No and no, and none of us should be under the impression that it will. We are not dealing with a snake, where cutting the head kills the body, but with a multi-headed dragon, where two heads grow for each one we lop off.

I'm not throwing dirt on our success. Our forces deserve every bit of praise. Let's be real, however. The world will not be less dangerous tomorrow because Bin Laden isn't in it. It will be safer because we have so many people working to prevent the acts of terror being plotted against us.

Remember, too, that GOD is involved in this fight as well. Please thank HIM for the courage he has given to our troops and those who protect us.

The Ladies' Version Of The Big Game

2011-05-01T21:48:00.000-07:00

For those of you who can't understand the obsession with the Royal Wedding, a friend gave me the best explanation I've heard yet: "This is the Super Bowl for women!"

She's right. What's more, it doesn't happen every year. Oh yes, we still love fairy tales; that explanation still holds water. But looking out into the crowds on Friday, who did you see: Ladies, overwhelmingly. Your humble servant found himself quite along in his interest among his circle of friends. Indeed, at Friday Morning's prayer breakfast with the guys from church, they couldn't believe the fuss. But it's no different than the ladies who can't understand men who crave football like a drug.

So why was I interested? It's because the Royal Wedding was so much of what the world is lacking in right now: beauty, grace, kindness, love, and acknowledgement of GOD'S presence. When the Lord Bishop of London gave his homily, I felt he was speaking to all of us, especially in these words:

We stand looking forward to a century which is full of promise and full of peril. Human beings are confronting the question of how to use wisely the power which has been given to us through the discoveries of the last century. We shall not be converted to the promise of the future by more knowledge, but rather by an increase of loving wisdom and reverence, for life, for the earth and for one another.

I especially appreciated the reading from Romans 12, which says, in the NIV form:

1 Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. 2 Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

3 For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you. 4 For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, 5 so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. 6 We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; 7 if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; 8 if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully.

9 Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. 10 Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. 11 Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. 12 Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. 13 Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.

14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. 15 Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. 16 Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.

17 Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. 18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.

Case Closed?

2011-04-27T09:23:00.000-07:00

President Obama has released his long-form birth certificate from Hawaii, hopefully bringing an end to what has become an unbelievably silly distraction.

This morning, he said:

And I have to say that over the last two and a half years I have watched with bemusement, I've been puzzled at the degree to which this thing just kept on going. We've had every official in Hawaii, Democrat and Republican, every news outlet that has investigated this, confirm that, yes, in fact, I was born in Hawaii, August 4, 1961, in Kapiolani Hospital.

What puzzles me is why the White House just didn't release the long form in the first place and end the nonsense. Then again, the president has better things to do than be goaded by Donald Trump. He shouldn't have to cowtow to those who looking for an excuse -- any excuse -- to get him booted out of office.

Really, now, will this make a difference among those grabbing at a bunch of rotten straws? Methinks not.

Katie Begins The End

2011-04-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

Katie Couric has officially confirmed TV news' worst-kept secret, telling People she's stepping down from the CBS Evening News. No last day has been announced yet, nor does she reveal her next career move, although it's widely believed she'll helm a syndicated talk show.

This ends an experiment in TV news that went beyond Couric's title as the first female solo anchor of a nightly network newscast. When Couric joined CBS in 2006, the network rebuilt the entire evening news around her, adding an interview segment and a series of outside editorials called "FreeSpeech." Then CBS discovered network news viewers can be a very stodgy bunch. The editorial segment disappeared. So did the in-studio interview segments.

Couric continued to do several big interviews in the field, including that sit-down with Sarah Palin which revealed the 2008 veep candidate wasn't quite ready for prime time. It also salvaged Couric's career at the network, which I and others said was circling the drain, given her inability to get the network out of the third-place spot in the evening news ratings race.

I've talked before about the reasons Katie hasn't turned things around. I still think her biggest strength is interviewing and not news-reading, and network brass misjudged that in the glow of Couric's star power. She has never looked comfortable delivering scripts from a prompter, even five years after her debut.

But moreover, it's not about Katie. It's about a nightly news broadcast that has still not escaped the long shadow of Dan Rather and weak lead-ins from its affiliate stations. No one person is going to change that and not in five years.

Dear ABC, We Don't Need Another Talk Show...

2011-04-19T02:13:00.002-07:00

...let alone two. But ABC's daytime topper decided to kill off classic soaps All My Children and One Life To Life, replacing them with a cooking show and a makeover show.

My question is, why not a game show? I'd love to see two half hour games somewhere in the mix. ABC has been out of the daytime game show business since 1990, when it axed a revival of Match Game. However, I can think of several titles that are screaming for revivals.

Split Second. This is the show that made Tom Kennedy's career. It's a smart, lightning-fast hard quiz, but it needs to be done exactly the way Kennedy did it in 1974, when ABC hosted its first incarnation. Split has the challenge of multiple-part questions where you don't just want to be right, you want to be first, as demonstrated in these clips from an exciting 1974 episode. Watch and see if defending champ Marvin Shinkman can pull off a come-from-behind win:

Press Your Luck. This show was the highest-rated rerun on GSN, and it still has life in it, especially among Gen-X'ers like me who watched this show when were home from school. CBS let it die. ABC can bring it back.

The $100,000 Pyramid. It started on ABC, albeit for a lot less money. Bring it back with a lot more.

Password. Another ABC standard during the 70's. Allen Ludden may be long gone, but the original format is still strong, despite misfires with Password All-Stars and Million Dollar Password. And hey, you can almost count on getting Betty White -- Ludden's widow -- to play it again.

Tic Tac Dough. The Patrick Wayne 1990 version (and for that matter, the 1986 Jim Caldwell run) left a bad taste in a lot of mouths, but I think it's time to give this quizzer another go, if you can find the right host. This is another show with a lot of Gen-X love.

Now You See It. CBS ran two versions of this word-search game in the 1970's and late 1980's. It can be revived with some decent pacing and a return to the original 1970's format. The theme, "Chump Change" by Quincy Jones, is also one of the best game show themes ever, if not the funkiest.

Tattletales. It ran as a celebrity-gossip show, but it could easily be retooled as a game where dating couples see how much they really know about each other's personalities. Don't make it into another Newlywed Game clone with "whoopee" questions, and you'll have a game.

Governor Brewer Draws The Line

2011-04-19T01:27:00.000-07:00

I can say without hesitation that not all of Arizona's Republican delegation has gone into the Twilight Zone. Yet I didn't think I'd be saying that about Governor Jan Brewer until she wielded the veto stamp on SB1467, which would have allowed guns on college campuses; and HB2177, the so-called "Birther Bill," which would have forced presidential candidates to prove their citizenship before getting on the Arizona ballot -- a thinly-disguised swipe at President Obama.

Governor Brewer's actions are surely going to put her in the doghouse with her conservative buddies, but given that she signed SB1070, I think she has more than enough right-wing street cred to endure. If that isn't enough, let's consider the reasoning behind her veto statements.

On the gun bill, she writes:

"Today I vetoed Senate Bill 1467 because it is so poorly written. Bills impacting our Second Amendment rights have to be crystal clear so that gun owners don't become lawbreakers by accident. Two examples of this lack of clarity in the bill are: (1) the failure to define the key phrase "public right-of-way" where weapons can be carried, and (2) the inclusion of K-12 schools where federal and state laws generally prohibit weapons on K-12 school grounds.

"First, Senate Bill 1467 would prohibit educational institutions from banning weapons on a "public-right-of-way." However, legislators inexplicably decided not to define "public right-of-way" in the bill. There are four differing definitions currently found in Arizona statues but none apply to this bill. What is really puzzling is that this error was pointed-out during the legislative process. One proponent of the bill stated that a court will have to be the final arbiter in deciding what constitutes a "public right-of-way." We don't need the courts to write our gun laws. That is the job of the legislature."

With SB1070 and Arizona's employer sanctions law already getting the court treatment, you can't blame Gov. Brewer for wanting to avoid just a little bit of litigation fatigue. And with conservatives consistently complaining about "activist judges" making laws, why give them a gift? Unless, of course, you are thinking that's exactly the plan, to give conservatives more reasons to hate on judges.

As for HB2177, you can nearly see Governor Brewer rolling her eyes in the veto letter:

"I never imagined being presented with a bill that could require candidates for President of the greatest and most powerful nation on earth to submit their 'early baptismal or circumcision certificates' among other records to the Arizona Secretary of State. This is a bridge too far."

She adds, for an extra swipe...

"This measure creates significant new problems while failing to do anything constructive for Arizona."

I can hear the critics of the governor's veto saying, "What? You afraid of a little more paperwork?"

Anybody setting odds on who'll be the first to call for the governor's impeachment?

Hey, this is Arizona. It can happen.

Reel To Reel: The Conspirator

2011-04-17T17:16:00.001-07:00

Law And Order: Civil War

Going Rate: Worth full price.
Starring: Robin Wright Penn, James McAvoy, Evan Rachel Wood, Tom Wilkinson, Kevin Kline, Alexis Bledel
Rated: PG-13 (misleading -- should be fine for mature children under that age)
Red Flags: One sequence of a Civil War battle aftermath, depiction of the assassination of President Lincoln, mild language

Mary Surratt hanged for her role in the conspiracy that led to the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, the attempted assassination of Vice President Andrew Johnson, and the botched hit on Secretary of State William Seward. She owned the boarding house where the plotters met, and she was an unrepentant supporter of the Confederacy. Beyond that, was she guilty of a crime or just guilty by association? That's the central question of The Conspirator, a beautifully-filmed historical procedural directed by Robert Redford which makes a strong case for the rights of the accused and the presumption of innocence against a backdrop of fear and revenge.

As the film opens, the Confederate States of America is on borrowed time, fighting only to prolong its inevitable defeat. Despite President Lincoln's call for a fractured nation to heal, the lost Southern dream dies hard. A cabal forms to take out the nation's beloved president and those standing in the way of Confederate victory. As popular history tells us, President Lincoln died from the bullet fired by John Wilkes Booth at Ford's Theatre the night of April 14, 1865 during a performance of Our American Cousin. The Conspirator begins where my public-school history book left off.

The conspirators are tried by a military tribunal, due to Washington D.C. being under martial law at the time of the assassination. The tribunal system weighs heavily against the defendants, requiring only a majority -- not a unanimous -- verdict for conviction, among other things. Worse, the military jury is stacked with Union commanders. Surratt (Wright) hires Senator Reverendy Johnson (Wilkinson) to defend her, but Johnson backs out when he senses it will be impossible for his client to get a fair trial.

Johnson's second chair, Frederick Aiken (McAvoy) picks up the case. Even though he is a veteran of the Union Army, he believes that in the pursuit of justice there is no North or South. Aiken is not convinced of Surratt's innocence, but he is also not confident she is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. His efforts to mount a competent defense lead him back to Surratt's boarding house, where he begins to unravel holes in the government's case with the reluctant help of Surratt's daughter Anna (Wood).

Aiken also gets insight from Surratt herself, ill and refusing to eat in a stone-cold military cell. The movie doesn't portray her as a saintly fall-girl but a principled, GOD-fearing Confederate loyalist who draws the line at murder. She is not allowed to testify in her own defense, however, so Aiken's hope of acquitting her demands she made a heartbreaking choice.

I admired McAvoy's charisma as Aiken and his unwavering devotion to Constitutional principles where others are willing to suspend them. His adversaries argue the nation is in too great a state of shock and sadness to give the accused conspirators protections under the civilian justice system. Somebody's gotta go to prison, goshdarnit, and they gotta go quickly. More than a few of you will draw comparisons to today's War on Terror.

The Conspirator almost plays like a historical episode of Law And Order without the "cha-chunk" sound over the black and white title cards. It's richly costumed and set with beards, belles, and a ball scene. The dusty arsenal where the trial takes place is beautifully lit and filmed. It is compelling history, well written and accurately told, even if some facts seem, well, un-American.

The Conspirator is the first release from The American Film Company, which aims to produce compelling and yet accurate historical dramas. I'm delighted to see they're developing a movie around Paul Revere's famous ride. No timetable is set for release, but I can guarantee you I will be one of the first in line to see it... perhaps in uniform. HUZZAH!

Reel To Reel: Hanna

2011-04-10T22:36:00.001-07:00

The most dangerous father-educated daughter you'll ever meet.

Going Rate: Worth full price.
Starring: Saoirse Ronan, Eric Bana, Cate Blanchett
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Action violence, mild language, naughtiness suggested by a rocking trailer

In a sentence, if you liked last year's Salt, you'll like this picture: girl chased by spooks, girl runs around like crazy getting away from spooks, girl can kill anything that walks with just her bare hands.

Quite an accomplishment, given the title character (Ronan) has been raised in a snow-covered forest by her rogue CIA agent father (Bana) for the purpose of taking out Marissa (Blanchett), the agent who brought tragedy upon their family, a woman so diabolical she has an penchant for stilettos and spotless teeth. I guess she has no last name, either, but that Southern accent is a charmer.

Hanna knows little about the world except what her father reads to her from an old encyclopedia. He fills her head with facts as if he is defining her cover, which he is. Her childhood life is confined to a book of fairy tales. Even then, she shows a detachment. Hanna knows her life will have no storybook ending or chance for her to find her prince. No, Hanna is going out there to kill Marissa. That's her happily ever after, if she can accomplish it.

Notice I don't refer to her as "home-schooled." The home-schooling families I know don't raise heavily sequestered killing machines, despite some stereotypes floating around. One of those is best expressed in a t-shirt I recently saw for home-schooling parents: "Oh... I forgot to socialize my children!" Hanna's socialization comes on the job, as she sets out with her father to get Marissa before the ops get her.

Her trek takes her through Morocco, Spain and Germany, as she links up with a free-spirited British family on what I gather is a perpetual holiday. It's here where she's exposed to some semblance of joy in the form of a girls night out. Even then, she can only allow herself so much diversion when her senses react with a hair trigger. Something as innocent as a fluorescent light comes with an aura of suspicion. Hanna is not ignorant of everyday life as much as she is defensive of it, where a potential threat could lie around every corner. Even a simple friendship to the Brits' chatty daughter Sophie (Jessica Barden) comes with thick strings.

Marissa is drawn as an icily bureaucratic terminator. She is allowed no sympathy, no empathy, no moral compass. Just get rid of the girl and Dad. Eliminate the loose ends. Clean up the mess. She's just as roguish as the rogues she's tracking, if not worse. Of course, trying to take out Hanna proves to be more than a simple job, and you have to wonder how her CIA bosses would overlook a rising body count.

Hanna is an independent action thriller with a brain. I like how it doesn't drive the protagonist to a choice of her mission or her life beyond throwing in a few hints here and there. It also resists the temptation to throw in a love interest. Hanna doesn't have the time to get sucked into a Twilight-type teen heartthrob dilemma suitable for airing on the CW.

You know, maybe this film can kick off a new genre: the high-concept teen spy thriller. Hanna isn't James Bond, but I'm sure we can find someone who can cut it.

Being Beck

2011-04-07T01:48:00.001-07:00

As you've probably heard by now, Glenn Beck is ending his Fox News show. The parting is amicable, we're told, and it won't be the last we see of him.

Before I go any further, I will tell you openly that I didn't watch Beck's show, despite the "try it, you may like it" coaxing or scoldings of my conservative friends. Well, I did. When I did, I felt like I was 1) watching or listening to somebody on the verge of a breakdown or 2) getting a lecture from a fringe professor in a mild nightmare from my MU days. I did watch his rally in Washington last year and gave it a mixed review.

The new parlor game is whether he jumped or slipped. Beck is leaving Fox with solid numbers, even with ratings declines, the shadow of 400 Fox advertisers boycotting his show, and a stream of criticism.

Could he have spun way too many doomsday theories? Could he be too fringed for even Fox's outspoken lineup? Do people have an aversion to chalkboards?

Or perhaps the reason is a basic showbiz flaw: the act is getting stale. People aren't tuning into Beck perhaps because they know him too well. They know his politics and peeves and push-buttons. Nothing surprises them anymore. Nothing gives them motivation to keep tuning in, especially when the star of the show gives them little to hope for in America.

It is my thesis that political talk-show hosts intentionally stir the pot to keep their shows on the air. Polite talk makes great dinner table conversation but lousy Arbitron figures. Rush Limbaugh has figured out how to keep from falling into a rut after more than two decades on the national airwaves. I'm not sure Beck has learned the secret.

Averting Eyes

2011-04-04T10:45:00.000-07:00

A friend recently pointed me to this mini-teaching about ladies and modesty, and how men struggle with lustful urges:

This is perspective I don't often hear: modest dress is not only honorable to GOD, and good for your self-respect, but it's also better for men who are trying to live for GOD but still struggle with sinful desires.

I gather I'm in the minority among my male peers because I find a lady in an 18th Century dress a beautiful sight to behold. Bikinis, nah. Short shorts, nope. But still, I'm having to avert my eyes a lot.

On Friday evening I was grabbing a burger at the brand-new In-N-Out near the Tucson Mall. Some teenagers with a church group were sitting behind me in T-shirts and jeans, nothing provocative... until one of the ladies suddenly bent over to grab something off the floor and I realized -- to my shock and horror -- that her pants and her shirt weren't coming together like they should. I re-directed my eyes out the window to the darkness of Oracle Road.

I'm not immune from lustful thoughts, either; I'm still a guy and I don't have the gift of celibacy, although sometimes I wish I did. But I can tell you this: I pray for GOD to help me be a light in this world, and in answering those prayers, HE is helping make temptation less of a threat (Romans 12:2, 1 Cor. 10:13). You draw nearer to GOD, and HE will draw nearer to you (James 4:7-8).

I am so thankful for young ladies who cherish their modesty, not only for the aforementioned reasons, but also because they realize they have a choice in this world, and they don't have to choose what the world is telling them to do. They can be what GOD made them to be, without shame, without guilt, without feeling like they're not a real woman because they wear something that falls below the knee.

Thank you GOD, for helping me to be a gentleman beyond that person in breeches and a three-cornered hat.

Making It On A Congressman's Salary

2011-03-30T11:25:00.000-07:00

According to Talking Points Memo (TPM), Republican Congressman Sean Duffy of Wisconsin says he's still struggling to meet his bills despite a $174,000 salary. Yet he still says he'll take a pay cut. Newser is reporting it too, for those of you who wouldn't be caught dead reading some "lib-rul" blog, as is KMSP in the Twin Cities.

As TPM quoted him:

I can guarantee you, or most of you, I guarantee that I have more debt than all of you. With 6 kids, I still pay off my student loans. I still pay my mortgage. I drive a used minivan. If you think I'm living high on the hog, I've got one paycheck. So I struggle to meet my bills right now. Would it be easier for me if I get more paychecks? Maybe, but at this point I'm not living high on the hog.

I'm going to sidestep the controversy over a video clip that appeared in the TPM article and instead focus on Duffy's cash-flow analysis. First, TPM doesn't point out that your congresspeople have to maintain two homes: the one in their district and the place in Washington where they're bedding down while Congress is in session. That also comes with travel expenses and incidentals associated with the back and forth. I gather those student loans include law school, which is never a bargain. This is before we even get around to the expenses of a family of six. If you're wondering about staff expenses, your lawmakers get an allowance for those. Rep. Duffy's wife works as a teacher, bringing in a little bit more, but she stands to take a pay cut in as Wisconsin's new budget goes through.

I can only delve so deep into Duffy's books without breaking a few privacy laws, but let's suppose Duffy's household income is closer to $200,000. That's still at least double what a lot of us make. I can only hope he's paying down his mortgage and education expenses as quickly as possible and not putting himself deeper into hock on credit like his employer.

But what troubles me is that many people don't know the difference between the cost of living and the cost of living it up. Bravo to Duffy for driving a used vehicle. The depreciation on a new car has me vowing never to buy a new ride ever again. A lot of people confuse a want with a need. They have to have those clothes, that house, that car, that furniture, that iPad. All right, I admit I just splurged for an iPad 2, but I'd been saving up for that out of overtime pay.

Maybe instead of giving Rep. Duffy flack about his stated money struggles, we should be encouraging him to budget better. I've become a big fan of Dave Ramsey's cash-only financial system. I know single-income families who make 25 percent of Duffy's pay who live comfortably and happily. These folks clip coupons. They shop at the second-hand stores. And they tithe. Yes, 10 percent off the top is going to GOD, and GOD is blessing their lives.

Duffy agreed to cut his pay. Granted, he hedged a bit, but he still agreed to do it. Would he agree to one of Dave Ramsey's money makeovers?

The Blue And Gray, Presented In Sepia

2011-03-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

For those of you wondering what happened to Pvt. Francis of the 1st Virginia Volunteer Infantry, he sent us these daguerreotypes from We Make History's Civil War Ball, in remembrance of that great conflict that began 150 years ago... and reassurance that all was not dark during our nation's darkest times.

Daguerreotypes provided by M. Cynecki

The young Confederate private has a peculiar longing for the days of his Colonial Virginia ancestors, when the minuet was in fashion. The kepi may have replaced the tricorn, gray now replaces the red white and blue, but something beautiful remains. And as always, Virginians love to dance.

Our host and hostess, the renowned Colonel and his lady, greeting the many belles. Hoopskirts fill the floor, floating and twirling about.

As part of the procession, a certain stately air is required. One could set a book upon the private's head and it would remain in place.

Standing at attention, and ready to dance. One must give the ladies their proper space to make room for those beautiful hoops.

Giving proper honors to the ladies. Everyone has their methods, and some bow lower than others. No matter, as long the belles know you are thankful.

The young soldiers stand at attention, ready to honor a selection of young Virginia Belles...

And here they are, one from each county in the Old Dominion, the ladies we have the highest regards and hopes for, the ones we're praying for, the ones we praise for their devotion to GOD and to making an impact on the world.

The young Private considers himself honored to escort at least one of them.

By request, the method of choosing a partner for one dance falls to the floor. More specifically, to the shoes on the floor deposited by the belles. Find a shoe, and one finds his Cinderella....

...but you'll have to fight for it. The young Confederate prefers the flanking maneuver to avoid casualties. These ballroom warriors are not the only anxious ones. Our commander must fret about losing some men before the Battle of 1st Manassas. (That's Bull Run if you wear a blue coat.)

Fortunately, everyone survives without a scratch and is in top form to charge forward again and again.

And afterward, finally, gracefully, that Colonial-minded Confederate can at last share a minuet with his beloved dancing partner.

More from this beautiful evening here.

Reel It In!

2011-03-18T00:05:00.001-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, no preview to the Civil War Ball would be complete without a tribute to a enduring favorite, the one dance people long for and remain long on the floor for -- the one, the only, Virginia Reel!

From the 2009 Olde South Ball:

And from the Greenfield Village Civil War Remembrance Weekend 2010:

Home Is Where The Ball Is

2011-03-17T00:05:00.013-07:00

Many great grand balls took place in spacious halls, and so shall it be at the Civil War Ball. But often all that was required was a spacious parlor, and so it was at the Second Annual Civil War Ball at the Smith Trahern Mansion in Clarksville, Tennessee.

The historic setting adds to the ambiance, just as the hoopskirts and uniforms do, even if there is a little less room to move.

This Is Gettysburg, And This Is What We Do

2011-03-16T00:01:00.003-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, I know many of you are probably curious about how the people at historic balls learn all the dances. Perhaps you've thought about coming to something like the Civil War Ball, but you're afraid you'll be outdanced, or worse, shunned because of an extra left foot.

Nonsense! We learn on the floor, and our dancing masters are more than happy to teach. That is how it is done with We Make History, and it is the standard procedure at a plethora of balls, like this one in Gettysburg.

Watch, listen, and learn a few moves...

When Those Happy Warriors Return To The Floor

2011-03-15T00:05:00.014-07:00

As we continue our march towards the Civil War Ball, I present for you another popular dance of Civil War America: Soldier's Joy.

Here it is, performed by Victorian Dance Ensemble, accompanied by the Susquehanna Travellers Band. And I threw in "Money Musk Reel" and "Lancer's Quadrille" as a bonus.

Do I hear a call for an encore? You got it! Here's the "Spanish Waltz," "Tempest" and "German Waltz."

Patty Cake, Patty Cake

2011-03-14T00:05:00.016-07:00

It's a ball week, Dancing Friends! This time, it's the annual Civil War Ball, the 150th Anniversary Edition as presented by We Make History.

The neat thing about this dances of this time is that they're very lively and quite easy to learn, unlike some of the old English Country Dances of your patriot ancestors. Still, you can see remnants of playful gestures from some of those old dances in this old dance, the "Patty Cake Polka."

Winning? Not Quite...

2011-03-08T01:36:00.000-07:00

In the epic struggle between money and professional conduct, professionalism just won. That's my take on the firing of Charlie Sheen from his hit sitcom. As I alluded to earlier, the unmentioned quandary for CBS and Warner Bros. TV (the studio that produces Sheen's Two And A Half Men) was whether they wanted to sacrifice a cash cow by offing its biggest star. Now we know.

Self-described rock star from Mars or not, Sheen's bosses could only take so much abuse. Further, with Sheen continuing to spiral deeper into instability and recklessness, his liabilities eclipsed his value. Profits heightened the studio's tolerance, but I can only wonder whether WB's insurance carrier for Men would continue to underwrite the show. Further, a letter from WB's lawyers to Sheen's attorney shows his client was making less than great television:

When Mr. Sheen returned from Christmas hiatus, he had lost a large amount of weight-more than 20 pounds, according to Show personnel. He appeared to be using drugs heavily.

You claim that Mr. Sheen was turning in "brilliant" performances during this time. Not true. As outtakes of the filming show, Mr. Sheen had difficulty remembering his lines and hitting his marks. His conduct and condition created substantial tensions on the set. Mr. Sheen conceded in one or more of his numerous recent interviews that he sometimes showed up to work after not having slept and needed to move his mark to accommodate his need to "lean" on something, for balance. These few examples all confirm Mr. Sheen's rapid physical and mental deterioration resulting in a failure to perform his essential duties.

The letter mentions WB and CBS have twice now worked with Sheen to clean him up, adjusting or canceling production on his show only to see him relapse in public and dramatic fashion.

No corporation should have to tolerate an employee that continuously spits in its eye, no matter how much he enhances the bottom line. Bringing Sheen back for another season would've let Hollywood bad boys know they can bully anybody whose pockets they line. That's not exactly "winning."

Reel To Reel: The Adjustment Bureau

2011-03-06T17:03:00.001-07:00

We control the horizontal, the vertical, and a lot more.

Going Rate: Worth full price for thinking people.
Starring: Matt Damon
Rated: PG-13
Red Flags: Mild language, one sex scene, some action violence

Proverbs 16:9 (NASV) tells us: "The mind of man plans his way, but the LORD directs his steps." Deism, that belief shared by many of our founding patriots, tells us GOD created the world and then stepped back. The Adjustment Bureau is somewhere between the two, but it's ultimately a hybrid of The Matrix, The Butterfly Effect, Men In Black and Inception with a Twilight Zone feel. It tells us the world is secretly run by a group of well-dressed men in fedoras who are monitoring and occasionally nudging our life decisions in accordance with "the plan" which is administered by "The Chairman." Does that mean GOD? Are the guys in the hats our guardian angels? It's a good dinner-table discussion.

Congressman David Norris (Damon) is a rising political star who's about to win a Senate seat when a tacky picture surfaces in the New York Post that scotches his election. In a moment of public disillusionment, he gives a concession speech excoriating the packaging and consulting that is modern-day politics. Were those moments chance? Keep your eyes on the guys in the hats. They are a shadowy, joyless, bureaucratic bunch, armed with "plan books" that plot out a person's future like a real-time subway system map lifted from Hogwarts. The guys skip around town using conventional doors in a way that bends the time-space continuum. Wings are so yesterday.

Norris finds out about the mystery men when one of the adjusters botches what sounds like a simple assignment: get Norris to spill his coffee before he gets on the bus, thus keeping him from reconnecting with love interest Elise (Emily Blunt). You wonder what could be so bad about a professional dancer with a British accent whose only sins we know are crashing a wedding and talking to Norris in the men's room on Election Night. Turns out Elise isn't in his "plan." Yet they meet again, and Norris is taken back behind the curtain of the universe -- or in this case, an abandoned warehouse -- and told to forget about the girl and the men who just abducted him. Otherwise they will erase his entire brain, an awfully excessive means of getting rid of a flame. Then again, selective deletion didn't work so well in Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind.

Matt Damon gets to run a lot in this movie, just like in the Jason Bourne flicks. So we've got action. We've got rebellion. We've got intrigue and sticking it to "The Man," even if he may be our Creator, as Norris figures out he may be able to rewrite his plan and confound the adjusters. Most of the action, however, is in our minds as we dwell on the larger questions.

"What happened to free will?" Norris asks. That was tried before, the adjusters tell him, and humanity messed things up. Well, duh. That should've been obvious after that little serpent incident in the Garden Of Eden. Instead, it seems the adjusters and their Chairman are in the cycle of stepping in and stepping back, thinking people have matured enough to let them plot their own destinies only to find they're not. Judged against history, it sounds reasonable, perhaps Biblical, but it's not. Romans 8:28 kills the theory that GOD steps back, as does that aforementioned passage in Proverbs. But I'll admit, I thought about Hebrews 13:2 (NIV) when I thought about one of the guys in the hats: "Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it."

The Adjustment Bureau is another fine product from the works of Philip K. Dick, the writer who gave us the stories behind Blade Runner, Minority Report and Total Recall, three other sci-fi classics. It's hard to believe he was so poor at one point, he resorted to eating dog food. Was that part of his plan, or just chance?

Rehab Failure

2011-03-01T00:45:00.000-07:00

Normally, I would be content to let Charlie Sheen continue his slide into darkness without comment, if it weren't for a troublesome observation: did this guy really go through drug rehab? Or did the rehabilitation experts just switch his drug to ego?

As Reuters reports via Yahoo:

ABC News and celebrity website Radaronline had Sheen's blood and urine tested, and revealed no drugs in his system for the past 72 hours. "I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available because if you try it once, you will die," he said in the ABC interview.

Maybe it doesn't cause physical death, but it has been known to kill careers.

Watching this all play out on TV also troubles me. ABC, NBC and CNN are all feeding his unchecked megalomania by letting him rant even more against his show, his producers and his network. CBS is keeping its distance and staying silent, which is about the best it can do in the face of a sitcom star gone wild.

A commenter on Deadline.com suggested this:

There’s a reason why recovering addicts are secluded from the public when they are in a proper rehab facility. Addicts often act out in anti-social behavior and anger when they first transition to sobriety, mostly due to the changes their body chemistry is going through. Since Charlie is being pampered in an at-home “rehab light”, the whole world gets to see his withdrawal symptoms. If Sheen’s people had been smart enough to force him into a real rehab facility, only a therapist would be hearing these rants in private. This behavior will pass in a month or so if Charlie sticks with his sobriety.

Or it would have never happened at all had he been forced to do a 90-day program, in seclusion, in the first place. I serenely hope that's what CBS and Warner Bros. Television and the Two And A Half Men staff all wanted for Charlie. But I don't think he would've gone for that. I also hope some suit didn't suggest some way to get him in and out of rehab as quickly as possible to salvage what was left of the season and protect millions of dollars in advertising and syndication revenue.

Now as it stands, Sheen's show has only cranked out 16 episodes this season, eight less than its contract with CBS. I gather nobody even considered sliding work on those episodes back to late spring or early summer. That's a shame, but networks really don't want to be paying big bucks for shows -- even highly-rated ones -- that will end up airing during the summer when TV viewership drops. At least the show's crew is getting paid. The rest of us get to see a man go down the tubes thinking he's on top.

Run, Don't Talk

2011-02-24T01:36:00.000-07:00

Forget the filibuster. We now have the fleeabuster. When you're outnumbered on a vote for a bill you don't like, why waste your breath speechifying when you can run away with your party buddies to create a quorum issue?

You probably know about the Wisconsin Democrats who skipped the state to thwart a budget bill that would end collective bargaining rights for state employees and force concessions on health care and pensions. Democrats fled Indiana and Ohio to gum up a vote. They all take some inspiration from a similar stunt in Texas a little less than a decade ago. The strategy is to force compromise on the objectionable bill. In Indiana, it may be working. In Wisconsin, not so much.

Moreover, the business of government is slowing down or stopping. Without a quorum, other bills don't come up for a vote, controversial or not. We all know the "gub-mint" moves slowly enough as it is -- except in Arizona, where the Republican-dominated legislature just rammed through a huge business tax cut in less than a week. But Arizona Democrats don't dare leave the state. They know the GOP would help them pack.

Those of us who grew up with decent parenting learned we can't run away from our problems. That's called being a coward. John Baldoni at Fast Company explains it further:

Embracing the run and hide strategy is a tactic that middle schoolers would understand--if you don't like something, go home. But since the legislators are adults the abandonment strategy comes across as self-serving and frankly un-democratic. The beauty of a democracy is that you work within the system to effect change; sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but the operative word is "work."

The Wisconsin Democrats know they can't win unless Governor Scott Walker makes a huge concession, which would then alienate the majority of voters who put him in office.

Majority rule isn't easy. It isn't pretty. You may not think it's fair. Fine -- go get your own majority in the next election. Holding the majority doesn't give you permission to whallop the minority with tyranny, but we're not at that stage. Wisconsin's runaway lawmakers have throngs of angry public employees on their side who have set up an ongoing protest in Madison. Cairo it ain't, but they'd love you to see the comparison to Hosni Mubarak or Mommar Gaddafi-Quadaffi-Kadafy-Whatever. One problem: Walker's no dictator and Wisconsin's no kingdom. And lawmaking is not some child's game where you get to march off and sulk if you don't win.

George And Michael

2011-02-18T23:40:00.006-07:00

To cap off our weeklong pre-tribute to the George Washington Ball, your humble dancing servant presents one number you will definitely not be seeing tomorrow night, as performed by the mascots of George Washington University... and Michael Jackson.

Dance on, my friends!

It's A Little Early For That, You Think?

2011-02-17T23:35:00.003-07:00

I must admit to you, Dearest Dancing Friends, that many of the capers I have been showing you this week would not be danced in George Washington's time, or at the George Washington Ball. Some of them date to the early 1700's, decades before the Father of Our Country would take command, much less his first ballroom steps.

So why do I show them? Because usually a few fancy dances would start the evening before things progressed into the numbers people were more familiar with. I have also run into a lack of available YouTube material from the Revolutionary period -- many things are from the Regency era or the Baroque to mid-1700's.

And all right, I'll admit it -- I love the outfits.

Enough explaining. Let's get to another of the fancy dances. Here are three from Compagnie Fantaisies Baroques:

Put Some Spring In Your Step

2011-02-16T23:50:00.002-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, colonial capering was not always slow and stately or complicated and geometric. Sometimes it could be quite anxious and athletic, as this couple demonstrates...

Careful now, or you may flip your wig...

I have to think this gentleman is a judge with a do like that.

Afterward, one would need some liquid sustenance -- but nothing alcoholic. Otherwise, this is what might happen:

And now the scores: 5.7, 5.8, 5.9, 5.9, 5.8, 5.7. That slip on the double axle did seem to be the one mistake, but he's definitely in medal contention.

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

2011-02-15T23:53:00.001-07:00

I hear your criticisms: this English dancing --it's so repetitive.

But Dearest Dancing Friends, that's also what makes it so enjoyable! If you louse up a step, there is always the next iteration. And when you are all dressed up in your breeches and buttons and powdered wigs, dancing at George Washington's Ball, who cares about your mistakes as long as you look beautiful making them?

You won't catch Altenglischer Countrydance making mistakes, however, as they perform this beautiful rendition of "Upon A Summer's Day."

I adore how the gentlemen are not afraid to prance about, especially in this short quadrille:

Step By Step

2011-02-14T23:47:00.002-07:00

My Dearest Dancing friends, it is well known that your colonial Virginian ancestors loved to dance. As such, they knew many dances by heart, and they walked through many intricate moves in their sleep.

So I ask the question: would a group of 21st Century Americans be able to handle an 18th Century cotillion, with choruses and verses of figures?

See for yourself in this vacation video from Colonial Williamsburg:

Oh let us be merciful. Let us give them one more chance.

I assure you, things will not be this complicated at the George Washington Ball!

My Lady, You Look Fabulous!

2011-02-13T23:39:00.001-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, it's nearly time for another of my favourite balls of the year: The George Washington Ball is this coming Saturday!

As your humble servant kicks off a weeklong tribute, let's start in the wardrobe. A fancy ball deserves your fanciest attire, especially if you're nobility. Let's watch as the Colonial Williamsburg seamstresses fit Her Ladyship into a new gown for a ball held in her honour:

Now, listen as Lady Dunmore -- or the lady who interprets Her Ladyship -- tells us more about what that ball was like:

I have danced in 18th Century attire inside the Old Capitol in Williamsburg -- for five minutes. My dream one day is to dance for much longer there. Until then, I'll just have to settle for this -- a look at the annual George Washington Ball in Williamsburg:

Talking To Myself

2011-02-11T12:23:00.000-07:00

A friend recently asked: "If you could say anything to the 20-year-old version of YOU... what would you say to yourself?"

This is my reply:

"You will not believe this, but trust me. You are a repressed 18th Century gentleman. Put down that can of pepper spray; I'm serious here.

"I know your freshman history class was a major drag, but you're not learning it the right way. I want you to check out Williamsburg. Just go. You didn't really get it when you went there with Mom and Dad and your brother in 1986, but I think you will now. You have this quiet idealism about about you, something inside that makes you want to believe things are really better than everybody else says that they are. You need to be in a place were people celebrate what's good about life and living in a free country, regardless of what people are grousing about around MU right now. Two words: living history. I want you to find people who enjoy doing that and ask how they got into it.

"Remember how you told your girlfriend Jessica that you would like to go to a costume ball one of these days? I want you to find one and go for it. Dress up in the finest Colonial outfit you can rent: long coat, knee socks, tricorn, the whole smack. You know you want to do it, but you don't because you're afraid what happened to you in middle school will happen again. You think a lady -- especially one your age -- will never love you because you're too out of touch with everyone else. I am telling you're wrong, and it's because you haven't found the right circle of friends who are focused on the right things.

"Remember when you were just beginning your sophomore year, and some folks from one of the campus ministries invited you to a moonlight game of Capture the Flag? You went and you liked it. Then they invited you to church. You shoulda gone. Well, it's not too late. I want you to know this: GOD loves you. HE always does. Even if you don't notice it. HE'S trying to get through to you through a back channel.

"I want you to go back to church, not just any church, but the right church. Those Presbyterians are good people, but they're not addressing the questions you have. They're a PC and you're a Mac. Well, yeah, you're more like an Commodore Amiga, but you get it. Find a youth church with people your age who are seeking and need answers to the way GOD really works. When you were 13, you took a confirmation class and wrote a credo to become an official Presbyterian, but it didn't help you a lick spiritually. All it did was give you a lesson on how to flatter the right people. But more than that, I'm telling you there's a difference between going to church and having a right relationship with GOD. If you stay on your present course, you're going to be in your 30's before somebody explains that to you. Then they're going to pray with you outside a fast-food joint in Phoenix. Don't ask questions, man, just hear me out.

"Keep pursuing that journalism degree, but I want you to think hard about the TV business and what it could do to you. You're still in college. You've got options. Broaden your career menu and see what else is out there besides something network-affiliated. I'm not saying you're about to make a bad career choice; I'm just saying there will come a time when you wonder whether you chose a career that really fit you or not. I think if you start whetting your appetite for history and getting back to GOD, you're going to see things in a whole new way, and that's going to have you rethinking your day job. Have no fear: you can still be successful and make good money, but you'll have more satisfaction.

"Back to your girlfriend. Don't let other people dictate your love life. I know they don't now, so don't change your mind. If you start going back to church and hanging out with people who really know what's going on in your heart, that proverbial "right girl" will find you. Even if she doesn't, don't worry. I am telling you will derive much pleasure from being GOD's unmarried servant, and in doing so, you will realize that what the world defines as love is sorely lacking.

"I've got to warn you about some quirks that are going to happen when you follow all of this advice. You are going to start wearing three-cornered hats in public. You're going to start bowing to people. Don't let other people make you think it's weird. They're the ones into the grunge scene and the angst of youth. Where do these people get off defining normal? You seem to enjoy being this nonconformist. So be nonconformist in a positive direction. That tricorn is a symbol of revolution, right? So have your own revolution. Be the change you'd like to see in other people.

"There's a lot I could reveal to you about what will happen to you, good and bad, but it's pointless to tell you about it now because your decisions from this point forward will alter the timelines and create this alternate reality that I pray will be better than the one you're currently traveling on. Remember that scene in Back To The Future Part II where Doc is explaining the rift in the time-space continuum and how things got all messed up. For Marty it was a bad thing, but for you it's a better thing because I telling you how to avoid doing some of the things you wish people would've warned you about at this time in your life.

"I'm not going to save you from your mistakes because that's impossible. You don't have to be afraid about anything. You just have to realize it's time to be the person GOD designed you to be."

You Can't Buy Indulgences Any More, Either

2011-02-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

A lot of people have been misunderstanding the intentions of an iPad/iPod "Confession App" developed by a group of Catholics in South Bend, Indiana. The Vatican says it is no substitute for confessing your sins to a priest, but that was never the intention. The app is a checklist for remembering what you need to confess, something to be taken into that dark, curtained room when you go through the process.

I can imagine, though, that this would make for some awkward moments.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 2 weeks since my last confession. I confess I have taken the LORD's name in vain twice and--"

BLOOP! BLOOP!

"My son, what is that?"

"I'm sorry, Father, I have to take this..."

And can you imagine an iPad with you in the booth?

"My son, you have an interesting glow about you..."

"Oh that, Father, it's the LCD."

"The what?"

"My iPad. I'm trying out this confession app."

"Sweet Mother of Necessity, must you bring that in here?"

"It's to jog my my mind about what I need to confess to you."

"My son, I want you to say three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and take a memory-enhancement course!"

Not Fair

2011-02-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

The New York Times reports while President Obama talks about a "Sputnik Moment," school science fairs are waning. The problem -- too much else to do:

One obvious reason for flagging interest in science fairs is competing demands for high school students' extracurricular attention. But many educators said they wished the projects were deemed important enough to devote class time to them, which is difficult for schools whose federal funding hinges on improving math and reading test scores. Under the main federal education law, schools must achieve proficiency in math and reading by 2014, or risk sanctions.

The Obama administration has urged broadening the subjects tested under the law -- possibly including science. But some teachers say they are already burdened by state requirements to teach a wide range of facts -- say, the parts of a cell -- which prevents them from devoting class time to research projects.

Maybe it's time we rethink the whole "fair" concept. Instead of showing off knowledge for a panel of judges, why not find a real-world application for a team of students and let them go for it?

A bunch of kids interested in electronics can help design and build a phone system or an office computer network for a non-profit group. The students interested in human can shadow and work with nurse practitioners at health screenings. Earth science and meteorology junkies could team up and form their own school forecast lab, using the same freely available data the National Weather Service looks at every day. More internships would help.

At the end of a science fair, a student is left with a prize -- or maybe not -- and hopefully a sense of fulfillment from exploring a curiosity. With some flexibility and imagination, many more of us could reap benefits from that.

In Pursuit Of "Happiness"

2011-02-02T11:11:00.000-07:00

People in the land of Carnival are apparently afraid they could wake up one morning and find their "happiness" gone. Thus, some legislators in Brazil want to write it into their Constitution:

"In Brazil, we've had economic growth without the social growth hoped for," said Mauro Motoryn, the director of the Happier Movement, a non-governmental organization backing the legislation. "With the constitutional amendment, we want to provoke discussion, to seek approval for the creation of conditions in which social rights are upheld."

Similar explorations of officially finding happiness have been pushed by other governments. Both Japan and South Korea include the right to happiness in their constitutions, and earlier this month, the British government detailed plans to begin a $3 million project to measure citizens' well being.

Context, of course, is everything. The U.S. concept of "the pursuit of happiness" isn't found in our Constitution, but in our Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Our patriotic ancestors in the three-cornered hats and wigs were telling us government exists to protect our GOD-given rights, and when a government tries to take those rights away, it's the government that's got to go... not those rights.

You won't hear the "pursuit of happiness" mentioned in the Constitution. However, you'll see it alluded to in the preamble:

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Insuring "domestic Tranquility," promoting the "general Welfare," and securing the "Blessings of Liberty" are defining the "pursuit of happiness."

One can say, "We want happy citizens," but how does a government do that? Thankfully, our Constitution is an excellent framework of boundaries.

"Happiness isn't a game, people confuse it with something that is superfluous and it isn't," [Motoryn] said. "We need quality health care, which we don't have. We need quality education, which we don't have.

"It's about creating conditions for people to pursue happiness, but with training, with knowledge, preparing us to be a more advanced society in the future."

Well said.

Skills Squared

2011-01-27T12:58:00.000-07:00

Check out the beginning of this clip from The Old American Barn Dance and you'll see how the pros tear up the floor. Dearest Dancing Friends, I'm not near this skill level yet in either my ECD or contredanse experience, but I have a friend who says she's gotten to a certain level in square dancing which requires a mastery of at least 100 calls.

I assure you, we won't be going this fast at the Arizona Barn Dance, but we will be just as lively!

And once you cool off from the dance floor, enjoy Kenny Roberts, The Candy Mountain Girls, Salty Holmes and Johnny Bond.

Let's Get Swinging!

2011-01-27T00:55:00.003-07:00

As the Arizona Barn Dance approaches, here's another clip from the 1953 TV series The Old American Barn Dance, featuring Bill Bailey, The Candy Mountain Girls, Pee Wee King... and more!

Hey, Bill! These Here Gals 'R' Singin' 'Bout Ya!

2011-01-27T00:45:00.002-07:00

Saturday is We Make History's first-ever Arizona Barn Dance -- just like the Tucson Barn Dance, only in the Phoenix area.

So in tribute, I'm offering a clip or two from another barn dance, the Old American Barn Dance broadcast in 1953.

DeZurik Sisters, take it away:

The Unabashed Colonial In Jane Austen's Ballroom

2011-01-23T15:59:00.015-07:00

A bit anachronistic in a sea of anachronism, Viscount Christopher attends the Jane Austen Evening in Pasadena, California.

I have never seen so many people in Regency dress gathered in one place. The moment I step into the Pasadena Masonic Lodge transports me into the BBC's Pride & Prejudice, with men wearing long black coats and black breeches with white stockings or regimental uniforms. Every lady is wearing a slender 1800's gown, mostly in pastels and prints or satin or golden trim. I count three brave lads in kilts. I thought about wearing mine this evening before retreating to the comfort of my blue satin jacquard suit with the floral weskit and lace jabot, adorned with my gold trimmed tricorn -- and a yellow ribbon to remember those lost in the Tragedy of Tucson.

The house guidelines advise a wardrobe selection from 1775 into the early 1800's. I am clearly pushing the early limit. Not that anyone minds...

"Sir, could I have your picture?"

I pose in several places for strangers with cameras.

"Did you make this yourself?"

"A lady in Phoenix made this for me. She is extremely talented. You should see the French gowns she made."

"It looks a bit French."

Several are amazed at my travels: "You came from Arizona? Just for this?"

Yes, for this. For something elegant, merry and in tune with the 18th Century gentleman inside of me. For my dearest diversion. And yet butterflies hum within me. Why am I so nervous? I may be among strangers, but I'm no stranger to the dance. What am I afraid of? Rejection? I haven't found it yet -- especially with so many admiring my non-Regency attire, including one of those kilted lads.

A spacious ballroom awaits us. Our players -- two fiddlers, a bass and guitarist -- tune up as I pace the room. I need to find an unattached lady for the opening promenade, if there is one. But our dancing mistress welcomes us by proceeding to the first set dance: "The Spaniard."

Even among strangers, my preferred method for finding a partner has never failed me. I locate a lady who looks like she is wandering about and bow to her. She graciously accepts the invitation and I am glad that the first selection is one I have danced many times before.

The ballroom can barely contain the long lines of couples. Positioned near the end of one of them, my partner and I barely have room to promenade down and back for eight bars. Many of the end couples are content to march in place for however many steps it takes. The dance ends with a chorus of "ahhhs" from the gathered.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" I cry. I am the only one shouting it, just like I am the only one wearing a tricorn, or raising my free hand high during the turns.

I bow to my partner once more. "May I escort you somewhere?"

She is perplexed. "Uh, no. Thank you! I'm good." She wasn't expecting me to live up to the 18th-Century rule of after-dance etiquette.

I find partners for "Mont Hills," "Brighton Waltz," and "Dover Pier," three dances I have never capered but learn quickly. My partners are appreciative. All is well.

As the first set ends, a lady approaches me: "May I be your partner for 'Selina'?" Usually, an 18th Century lady would not ask a gentleman for a dance, but that rule is happily discarded in the recreated ballroom. "Of course, My Lady!" I say with a bow and a doff of my tricorn. I am joyous for the invitation.

Some lemonade revives my body. Perhaps I needed more refreshment in those opening minutes of butterflies. "You look beautiful!" a server remarks. So many people are enthralled with my fashion. I have to wonder, why did they not dress in cheery colonial fashion? Why not gold or cheery pastels instead of those ubiquitous black suits championed by Beau Brummel? This is a ballroom, not a funeral parlor!

Another lady approaches. "You know in the 18th Century ballroom, people didn't wear hats." She means my lone tricorn.

"Maybe in the later 18th Century," I point out in kindness. "But there were also dances designed to be done by men in their hats." If I had more of my wits about me, I could demonstrate formal 18th Century bow where a man removed his tricorn and turned it over to show his partner he was not lame. This lady seems to forget I am not representing a Regency gentleman but a Colonial or Georgian one, a person some would disparagingly call a "fop." Regardless, I decide to doff my headpiece for the next set. One must sacrifice for the ladies.

I dance "Selina" with the partner who invited me before moving on to the "Lasses of Portsmouth." When "Kelsterne Gardens" is announced, our dancing mistress gives a caution: "This is for those who know. Do not attempt this dance if you have not done it in class."

Normally, I would throw caution to the wind and dance it anyway. But this is a group of experienced dancers, and I don't want to deprive others through my mistakes. So I sit it out. It pains me. I resolve, if this Viscount ever holds a ball of his own, no one will be advised to sit out. I would rather have a room full of dancers learning on the floor and laughing away their mistakes than ladies and gentlemen on the sides pining to dance as well as their peers. The ballroom is the great equalizer, and if it isn't, it should be.

I seek another partner for the "Rakes of Rochester" and find a novice lady. She is mildly uneasy about her skills. "My Lady, do not fret!" I say. This particular dance involves a move called a "twinkle," a showy figure where a lady and gentleman open wide in a showy gesture after a sashay down a set -- my kind of dance.

I lead her through it and she picks it up readily: a corner turn, a couple turn. The sashay and the "twinkle." A sashay back and a cast down the set. Four changes of rights and lefts. I can see her smiling. My free hand is raised as I turn her and the other ladies. "Affectations are encouraged," I say to those around me. "Let your light shine through." Remarkably, some do.

"I'm so glad I found you!" she exclaims after the dance. "You made my whole evening!"

A waltz is announced, and she invites me to dance with a young lady friend she has invited along. We begin in the usual way, in the usual waltz position, but I feel a desire to take things to a more elegant level.

"My Lady," I tell her, "there is a dance I do, a sort of waltz-minuet where I call the steps. If you like, I can show you. But if at any time you are uncomfortable, just say the word, and I shall halt. Would you like to try?"

"Yes."

So I lead her the minuet of my making -- a wide turn by right hands, then by left, then a step away from one another, then close to each other. I softly call the next step or use a hand gesture. She follows me perfectly, like she has been dancing it all her life. People are turning to watch us. People are taking pictures and videos. We are having an immensely fine time, lost in the elegance and beauty of the dance. We step forward, we side, we turn in place. When the dance ends, we honour each other regally, as we had been dancing for the Queen.

The friend who has brought her here is beyond words. We converse and I find she is a pastor in Long Beach. "This brought me back to GOD," I happily tell her, as I recount for her my testimony.

If I had any doubt about whether I belonged here or not, those doubts are gone. "FATHER IN HEAVEN," I prayed before I entered the ballroom, "help me to remember what I'm here to do." Giving comfort and joy on the dance floor is part of my life's mission. I pray that I might inspire others as I have been inspired, and when that happens, it is a gift from GOD, another answered prayer, another affirmation of love from above.

"Sion House" follows, and I convince myself I can handle "Mr. Beveridge's Maggot," even though the advanced dance it is a different version than the one I have previously learned.

Video by "PrincessSolitare"

I pick it up on the floor, and I thank my partner for her patience before escorting her back to the side. Another lady is beckoning me as she sees us in transit. "I shall be with you in a moment," I smile to her. She understands completely.

"Yes, it was always customary to escort a lady off," she smiles, grateful that some people haven't forgotten all the social graces. We dance "Irish Lamentation" together, although I cannot understand what is so lamentable about a dance with so much joining of hands and stately figures.

Our players offer a final free waltz before the evening concludes. My pastor partner from a few dances ago asks me to minuet with her, and I heartily do, uplifting her spirits once more.

Of the 18 dances in the evening, I dance 16, a good score on any dance card. I lose myself in the "Duke Of Kent's Waltz," a favourite of mine, before the evening ends with "Sir Roger de Coverley," better known as a Virginia Reel without the reeling part. A boisterous dancing master calls it out in a hefty voice.

"Take off your hat, sir!" he bellows to a gentleman in a stovepipe across the room. "It's that kind of a dance."

I tell the ladies I've danced a 30-minute Virginia Reel before. They can't believe it. Well, this is an English ballroom, not a Virginia one.

"Please say your farewells," the dance master hollers. "You don't have to leave, but you can't stay here!"

I fetch my modern-day carriage from the modern-day carriage house across the street before the attendants lock it in for the night. I park it in a safe place and scurry back inside to offer goodbyes where I can. I'm not sure if people are heading to an after-party, or whether there is one, but it seems like no such soiree is taking place.

However, I offer to escort an unaccompanied lady to her car for safety and chivalry's sake. She and I have danced together earlier in the evening. As we discuss our lives and our love of dance, she learns I am from Tucson and that I am seeking a refuge from sorrow in my hometown, even as I enjoy my dearest diversion.

"News people don't come from another planet," I explain. "We hurt too."

She is not sure where she has left her car, so we have plenty of time to share as I accompany her up and down the street until she is confident she is in the right place and can continue on without me. I bow to her one more time before we part.

"You'll all heal," she reassures me.

"Yes, I know," I reply. "Romans 8:28."

There's Something About An 18th Century Man

2011-01-21T23:00:00.001-07:00

Dearest Ladies, be honest -- how many of you have at one time dreamed of a man who carries himself well, defends your honour, holds your hand daintily, and dances with you -- all while wearing knee breeches?

Very well, maybe you haven't. But maybe you will, after you watch this:

If you aren't inspired by that, maybe you need another dose:

Dance On, My Friends! See you at the Jane Austen Evening!

Don't You Dare Call It Square

2011-01-20T23:42:00.004-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, what you in the 21st Century would call a square dance was once called a quadrille or a cotillion. It is a beautiful thing to watch, as this group from the Grand Napoleonic Ball in Florence demonstrates in HD:

Getting people to "slip" in a circle together, in time and in rhythm, is quite an accomplishment in itself.

You might scoff at the French, but they have some intricate and beautiful contredanses, like this one, also from Florence in HD:

And from Vienna comes the waltz, which was just catching on in the early 1800's. The proximity of the dancers and the way they held each other caused quite a stir. Gasp! What are they doing! Yet our group from Florence has avoided these issues:

This doesn't really look like a waltz at all, but more like a contredanse. Oh who cares... My Lady, may I honour you with this dance...

Room To Move

2011-01-20T23:33:00.003-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, one didn't need a ballroom to dance in the 18th Century. A parlor would do nicely for most intimate gatherings. But for a grand ball like the upcoming Jane Austen Evening, bigger is most certainly better.

Here's a happy assembly in Bath with room to maneuver:

And a dance from the Jane Austen Festival with even more space, presented in HD:

Just watching these people cavort lifts my heart. But soon I will be dancing again among fine ladies and gentlemen! I'm so ready...

Dance On, My Friends!

Consent To Search

2011-01-20T18:53:00.006-07:00

Somewhere in Riverside County, California, a sheriff's deputy is wondering why his instincts led him to a pair of buckled shoes and a haversack.

He pulled me over on Interstate 10 near the Morongo Casino this morning as I was driving to my parents' home in Upland, a run I've made at least a dozen times without trouble. I saw the lights on the unmarked squad car in my rear-view mirror and groaned as I pulled over. It has been at least 9 years since my last speeding ticket.

"Hi there," the deputy said after I rolled down the passenger side window. I expected his next statement to be, "Do you know how fast you were going?" Instead, he said, "You were kinda weaving around back there. I know the wind's blowing hard, but I'm able to keep my car on the road."

Obviously this lawman never drove a Kia Rio. When crosswinds kick up, the low-profile, lightweight car becomes a frigate caught in a storm requiring both hands on the wheel and braking to control. Santa Ana winds can force the car into another freeway lane without a series of hard steering corrections. I didn't argue about it.

"Where are you headed to today?"

"Upland, California from Arizona."

"Can I see your license and registration?"

I pulled the Arizona credentials out of my wallet. "My registration is in the glove compartment. Can I open it?" It's always better to ask before acting, I've heard. The last thing a patrol officer wants is a sudden move.

"Do you have any weapons?"

"No."

"Can you step out for me? Watch out for this traffic."

I got out carefully and stepped into the safe area in front of his patrol car but off to the side of mine. He's been trained well; I know he wants me out of the "kill zone," an area where too many officers have been injured in the line of duty. I also know I fit the profile: white, male, traveling alone, looking a little nervous, dressed in shorts on a chilly morning, driving with questionable items in the back seat like a gold-trimmed tricorn hat.

He studied my license. "Where are you coming from?"

"Tucson."

"I'm gonna let you off with a warning," he determined, to my relief. "You ever been arrested?"

"No."

"I'm gonna check you for warrants."

He radioed my information in. But his detective instinct wasn't satisfied just yet. "You carrying any weapons on you?" he asked again.

"No."

"Mind if I search you?"

"Go ahead."

He gave me a pat-down. This is the part where some of my friends would start to grumble about intrusive investigations, but I know where this is going. He thinks I'm either doing drugs or running them. The only drug in my body right now is too much hot chocolate from the Flying J back in Ehrenberg. He's looking for inconsistent answers, and I know from all the stories I've written on drug busts that inconsistency is a dead giveaway. I don't mind his hands on my tush. I'm just glad to get off with a warning.

"How long are you gonna be in Upland?"

"Two to three days."

"What are you doing there?"

"Staying with my parents."

"You do that a lot?"

"Yeah."

"Can I take a look inside your car?"

"Sure."

I hand the deputy my keys and he goes through my back seat. Then he turns to the trunk. As I stand by the side of the road, smiling and clutching my t-shirted chest in the cold, he unzips a blue canvas bag I'm hauling. Inside of that bag is my Colonial haversack and two pairs of shoes, one with pewter buckles.

Beat cops have a saying: "There's no such thing as a routine traffic stop." I don't know what he's thinking, but maybe he's wondering whether he's dealing with a road tripper or a time traveler. I know he's seen the tricorn. If he unzips the beige garment sack, he'll see a satin-blue 18th Century coat and breeches, a puffy shirt, and a flowered weskit along with a lace jabot and long white stockings, all to be worn for an 18th Century ball in Pasadena this weekend. But his search ends and he asks no further questions.

My records check comes back clean. The deputy nearly forgets to hand me back my license as he releases me without another caution to drive safely. I get back in the car, put all my papers back in their place, belt up and slowly roll back onto the road with the lawman following me out. I say a prayer for him as I watch him pull past me.

A few miles down the road, I see him make another traffic stop. Better luck next time.

Ewwww, A Dancing Bug?

2011-01-18T23:40:00.001-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, in the 18th Century, it was thought that a bite from a maggot spurred creativity. Thus some dances have the word "maggot" attached, like this one made famous in Pride & Prejudice: Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.

The preceding come from a previous Jane Austen Evening in Pasadena, like the one I'm bound for this weekend. Technically, it's a dance intended "for those who know," but that doesn't stop people from trying it. I learned it last summer for another ball, and I think I can remember enough of it to make do with light prompting. Either that, or I can rehearse with an invisible partner.

Here's a variation with more of a Renaissance feel:

But here's my favorite rendition, performed by some elegant Russians:

Peter The Great would've been proud.

Come Haste To The Wedding

2011-01-17T23:50:00.002-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, some people dream of a fairytale wedding. But how about a Regency wedding?

Consider this one from the 2009 Jane Austen festival in Bath:

I am one of those people who isn't afraid to venture out into the modern world wearing Colonial fashion. Amazingly, though, I'm surprised at how few people actually bat an eye to the anachronism.

No matter. Let us get back to the dancing. Staying in Bath, I invite you to feast your eyes upon the local minuet company:

Elegant. Refined. If you can dream it, you can dance it!

Start With Something Fancy

2011-01-16T23:50:00.003-07:00

Dearest Dancing Friends, a quite exciting opportunity is before me. This coming weekend I shall be attending the Jane Austen Evening in Pasadena, California. This is a highly popular Regency ball, so popular it sells out at least a month in advance with a sizable waiting list to get in. I reserved my spot back in November. So in anticipation and celebration, I'll be offering some tastes of what's to come.

Most 18th Century balls began with the fancy dances first, like the minuet. Here's an example from a Napoleonic Ball held last year in Italy:

Truth be told, the minuet was on its way out during Napoleon's time, and the waltz was gaining popularity even if it was a bit... er... scandalous. Notice how the couple dancing moves about one another, taking hands only occasionally.

I used to think a minuet was only an elaborate procession dance where a gentleman led a lady in a stately manner -- like this:

Here's another minuet from some 18th Century Italian friends:

To my eyes, this resembles an English country dance from the way the couples stand at first and the patterns they form. Let's not quibble though, as we proceed to one of my favorites, as demonstrated on film by Marie Antoinette:

This comes pretty close to the dance of my dreams: dressed in my 18th Century finest (although I would prefer a tricorn to a powdered wig), taking hands with a lady I love immensely, and turning about in a ballroom full of our friends, all dressed in period clothing, all to a full orchestra. My dear friend Madame and I have improvised beautiful dances similar to this one. We call it "our minuet." She once dreamed we danced this exquisite Renaissance dance in full regalia. I think she was more than dreaming.

Dance on, my friends!