hooray for hollywood

I love movies and stories from the Golden Age of Hollywood. I love the glamor and glitz. I love the bigger-than-life personas. I love the behind-the-scenes dirt and gossip. There is just something so, appealing, so compelling and so reviling about the stars, the movies and the lore of the movie business from the 1930s until roughly the early 1960s.

I especially love the dark, seedy underside of Hollywood. That's where the real fun is. Scandals in Hollywood are nothing new. Lurid tales of double-crossing, abuse of power and false promises go back to the first time a strip of film passed though a flickering light and was projected on a screen. One of the best accounts of true Hollywood lore — in my worthless opinion — is Nathanael West's 1939 novel The Day of the Locust. A flop in its initial release, The Day of the Locust gained universal praise a decade after its first publication. Since the 1950s, the novel has appeared on numerous "required reading" lists and "best novels of the 20th century" compilations. Sadly, Nathanael West was killed in a car wreck just eighteen months after its publication.

The Day of the Locust is a dirty story of dirty people in a dirty industry. Thirty-six years after publication of the novel, Academy Award-winning director John Schlesinger brought the story to the big screen.

Although I loved the book so much, I never saw the movie until yesterday.... and what a movie it was.

The film version of The Day of the Locust stars young and versatile William Atherton in just his second starring role. He plays the main protagonist, aspiring art director Tod Hackett. His role is ably supported by a cast familiar to avid viewers of 70s movies and television. The characters from the book were thoughtfully cast, not just plopping the "flavor of the week" into a role, as is so often done in today's film offerings. The criminally underrated Karen Black plays wanna-be starlet Faye Greener. Her father, washed-up third-rate vaudeville clown Harry Greener is chillingly portrayed by Burgess Meredith. And, then there's the always capable Donald Sutherland as bashful, naïve Homer Simpson (no reference to the cartoon character — just pure coincidence), who gets top billing, despite not appearing until nearly forty minutes into the film. Also along for the ride are Jackie Earle Haley as an obnoxious child star, Gloria LeRoy as his overbearing mother, Bo Hopkins as a scummy Western star, Billy Barty, as Abe Kusich, Tod's cantankerous neighbor (and one of the film's most unsettling performances), John Hillerman and Richard Dysart as shifty movie studio executives, Paul Jabara as a nightclub drag queen and a surprising Natalie Schafer as (of all things) a whorehouse madam. I also spotted Nita Talbot, Robert Pine, Dennis Dugan and Jerry Fogel in small roles. The whole ensemble plays each individual part to its harrowing and pitiful hilt. The sets are vintage and the scenes are slightly tinted in a sepia hue, giving an air of authenticity of the era.

But, be warned. This is no love letter to Hollywood. On the contrary, glamor and glory takes a back seat. This is a sick, sleazy, sordid tale of lowlifes, broken dreams, lofty delusions, shallow personalities, sexual escapades, entitlement, disregard for humankind, arrogance and contempt... and a little bloody cock fighting thrown in for good measure. The final scene — which seems to go on and on long enough to make sure every gut is properly wrenched — will haunt you for days. It is visually unforgettable and perfectly illustrates the climactic nightmarish scenario as described in the book. It is brutal, disturbing and, at the same time, poignant and tragic. Film reviewer Lee Gambin called The Day of the Locust a "non-horror film that is secretly a horror film."

I met William Atherton at a horror-themed celebrity autograph show several years ago. Known mostly for his later career roles in Ghostbusters, Die Hard and countless other movies and television shows, I caught William off-guard when I asked if he had any stills from The Day of the Locust. He laughed and leaned in close to me so as not to let the other attendees — some dressed as Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees — hear what he was about to say. He whispered, "Nobody here has seen The Day of the Locust." as he gestured toward the costumed occupants of the room. Then he reached under his table to retrieve a briefcase from which he produced a single promo shot of him dancing with a blond-wigged Karen Black. He graciously inscribed the photo and even posed for a picture with me. I shook his hand and thanked him. He smiled and said, "That was a great movie and a great experience filming it."

It was a great experience watching it, too. Take that as a warning.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

scary monsters... and super creeps

Halloween is approaching. It's the time for tricks and treats. Well, because of the worldwide COVID-19 pandemic, most communities across the country are figuring out creative — and safe — alternatives to the traditional, door-to-door, decidedly anti-social distancing trick-or treating. Watching scary movies is a good way to get into the Halloween spirit (pun intended!).

I love scary movies. I have loved scary movies since I was a kid when I would park myself in front of the television on a Saturday afternoon for a marathon broadcast of  horror films that were made decades before I was born. Local Philadelphia UHF station Channel 17 showed "Mad Theater" back-to-back with "Horror Theater," both hosted by the pseudo-frightening, always campy "Dr. Shock." The good doctor would entertain his mostly pre-pubescent home audience with magic tricks and hokey skits during breaks in the film. I even got to meet Dr. Shock when he made an appearance at a carnival in my neighborhood. It was a thrill... if I remember correctly. It was on Dr. Shock's show that I had my first exposure to Bela Lugosi's Dracula, Boris Karloff's Frankenstein and Lon Chaney Jr.'s The Wolf Man, along with a creepy parade of monsters and witches and zombies and ghouls and all kinds of things that go bump in the night. The only problem was.... they didn't scare me. I was drawn to these characters. I was fascinated by them. I marveled at them. I just wasn't scared by them... and that's what I was looking for. And so began my life-long quest for "the big scare"... the movie that would finally give me that scare I craved.

I have seen hundreds of horror movies, from the classics of the 30s to the low-budget thrillers of the 50s and 60s, to the blood-saturated gorefests from Britain's Hammer Studios in the 70s to the cookie-cutter slasher films of the 80s. Recently, I have watched movies that have been recommended by self-proclaimed aficionados... all to great disappointment. 

In fairness, I enjoyed the initial entry of a number of horror "franchises." Films like "A Nightmare on Elm Street," "Friday the 13th," "Halloween" and even the venerable "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," in my opinion were all entertaining, but — Jesus! — do we really need eleven sequels that essential tell the exact same story over and over again? I think not.

The current crop of horror movies are either more concerned with giving the viewer a front row seat to an autopsy or offering a flimsy, nonsensical plot as an excuse to splash gratuitous nudity across the screen. I know that I am in the overwhelming minority, based on the disciple-like attendees I have seen packing the aisles at horror movie conventions. (Yeah, I used to go to them when I collected celebrity autographs.)

I watched the Netflix series Stranger Things based purely on the buzz it received among friends and on the internet. I was not entertained. Yeah, yeah... I got all the references and jokes. I just didn't think they were as clever as the writers thought they were. I actually watched all three seasons of the series, hoping I would "get into it" as it progressed. I did not. I found myself constantly checking my watch and wondering how much longer it would go on. The acting was good. No complaints there. I felt the story was limp and took too long to tell. And when it was finally told, I didn't care. And I certainly wasn't scared.

Glutton for punishment that I am, I am currently in the throes of the HBO series Lovecraft Country. I was intrigued by the dichotomy of the subject matter — an examination of the oppression of African-Americans coupled with the supernatural. I am not a fan of science fiction, comic books, suspension of belief or stories that end with the cop-out of deus ex machina. I hate that. It's as though the writers just couldn't be bothered with thinking up an ending. I have watched Lovecraft Country and did not enjoy it. Oh, I watched the whole thing — all ten grueling episodes, just to see how everything wrapped up, but the storytelling is clunky and sprawling and disjointed. And I felt it's beneath the talents of the compelling cast. Yes, I realize that I am probably not the target audience. I knew that going into it, I already have a disinclination for the genre. But I gave it a shot anyway. I shouldn't have. I want to reiterate that the production and acting of this limited series was terrific, but with the exception of a few scenes, I did not find it scary. Just long-winded.

Yesterday, I watched a movie called Trick 'r Treat. Again, this film has maintained a cult following and a lot of praise since its awkward release in 2007. It is an anthology story comprised of several stand-alone tales linked by a single character that appears in each one. I have enjoyed this format in films in the past. I found Creepshow, Twilight Zone: The Movie and even a few of the 70s examples featuring Peter Cushing (like Dr. Terror's House of Horrors) to be entertaining. They didn't scare me, but I liked them. Trick 'r Treat was awful. It was doing its very best to look cool for the cool kids. It was run-of-the-mill, uninspired, unnecessarily gory and not nearly as clever as it thought it was. As far as scary....? Uh.... nope.

Look, monsters aren't scary. Guys with big knives aren't scary. Aliens aren't scary. Ghosts aren't scary. Gallons and gallons of blood and entrails aren't scary. Messy, yes.... but not scary.

Please. I'm not asking for a whole lot. I just want to be scared. I want a movie to scare me. I want to see a movie so goddamn clever and so goddamn frightening that I wont forget it for years to come. Honestly, I have seen only two horror movies that have come very close to legitimately scaring me. Psycho, the original 1960 Hitchcock tour-de-force and Jonathan Demme's Oscar-winning thriller The Silence of the Lambs. Both films were beautifully shot and impeccably executed. Both of these films featured a despicable villain that was not — by outward appearances — a monster. Both films elicited nerve-wracking suspense and both films — thanks to great performances and thoughtful directing — made the viewer root for the bad guy. That is scary.

Halloween will be here soon. We are all stuck in the house with a lot of free time. What's a guy gotta do to get scared around here?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a hundred million miracles

I love watching old movie musicals. I can sit and watch most of them over and over again... and, for some, I have. I've lost count at around a zillion on viewings of Singing in the Rain. Same goes for Oklahoma! and Annie Get Your Gun (although I still wince at Betty Hutton's shrieking style of singing). If I am going to be honest, I have never been able to stay awake through the entire 153 minutes of West Side Story. 

I used to look forward to the annual Fourth of July showing of Yankee Doodle Dandy on Turner Classic Movies, but I haven't watched it in a while because I have a difficult time with the "blackface" scene. Sure, the TCM host will introduce the film with a solemn, almost apologetic, disclaimer, stating that it is "historical" and "a product of its time." As much as I love the movie, I would prefer that it never see the light of day again (along with Holiday Inn, Babes on Broadway and The Littlest Rebel for the same reason.).

Juanita Hall

Recently, I watched a musical that I had never seen before. It's Flower Drum Song, the 1961 Rogers & Hammerstein take on Asian culture, specifically Chinese traditions. In its initial release, as well as its broadcast on TCM, the film was touted as being the first Hollywood film with a majority Asian cast. Yes, there had been plenty of films with Asian themes, but all of the lead roles were played by white actors in heavy, so-called "yellowface," make-up, including all of the "Charlie Chan" and "Mr. Moto" detective series and the cringe-worthy Dragon Seed, a chronicle of the Second Sino-Japanese war starring (gulp!) Katherine Hepburn, Walter Huston and Agnes Moorehead. Flower Drum Song did, indeed, showcase an Asian cast for its story about a traditional Chinese arranged marriage and the "Americanization" of the culture. However, of its four main leads — James Shigeta, Miyoshi Umeki, Jack Soo and Nancy Kwan — only Kwan is of Chinese ancestry. While an "all Asian cast" was commendable, there was absolutely no regard for which specific Asian nationality the actors represented. The role of wise "Madame Liang," originated on Broadway by African-American actress Juanita Hall, was planned for Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong (possibly to make up for her been passed over for the lead in The Good Earth in favor of white actress Luise Rainer). Wong died suddenly before production began and the part was reprised by Hall. The rest of the supporting cast were Asian, but of a wide variety of Asian races.

Miyoshi Umeki and James Shigeta

The songs in Flower Drum Song are typical Rogers & Hammerstein fare. Where the songs in Oklahoma! focused on using every Western, cowboy and prairie reference the celebrated songwriting pair could muster, the songs in Flower Drum Song were fraught with condescending — and downright racist — lyrics that proliferated stereotypes, presenting its subjects as quaint, little curiosities as though in a circus sideshow. Don't get me wrong. The cast was terrific and the musical numbers — while uncomfortable on the surface — were executed beautifully. Nancy Kwan was stunning in her solo performance of the blatantly sexist and subservient "I Enjoy Being a Girl," although her modest singing voice was dubbed by the white B.J. Baker, who "sang" for "Wilma Flintstone" in The Flintstones. (My wife pointed out how this song seemed eerily similar to "How Lovely to Be a Woman," as sung by Ann-Margret in Bye Bye Birdie.) It was particularly difficult to watch her deliver the self-mocking lyrics of "Grant Avenue." Jack Soo was endlessly endearing as the hot-shot Chinatown club owner. His rendition of "Don't Marry Me" was delightful, despite the song's obligatory racist jabs. Miyoshi Umeki displayed a beautiful singing voice that was sadly hidden in her secondary role as "Mrs Livingston" on the hip 60s sitcom The Courtship of Eddie's Father. And poor, hunky James Shigeta. He was once told by a Hollywood agent that if he wasn't Asian, he would be a huge star.

I watched Flower Drum Song to the very end. It was very uneven. Lively and engaging in spots and monotonous in others. I was glad I finally got to see it, but because of the hurtful and exploitative treatment of its cast, I probably will not watch future showings. (And there will be future showings.) I was sad to learn that the next Hollywood movie featuring an "all Asian cast" was The Joy Luck Club, released 32 years after Flower Drum Song. 

Hollywood still has a lot to learn.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

celluloid heroes

I have been watching Turner Classic Movies pretty much since its inception in 1994. On April 14 of that year, Turner Classic Movies (TCM) broadcast the 1939 epic Gone with the Wind as a fitting debut into the world of classic cinema. From that point forward, the cable channel has shown thousands of Hollywood's beloved films, as well as numerous examples of forgotten features. Of course, there are films that enjoy regular showings, based on perennial popularity and fan feedback. Stand-bys like Casablanca, Some Like It Hot and Citizen Kane are shown often. Very often. Popular actors are seen in some of their popular and less-than-popular films, offering viewers an interesting glimpse into the high and lows of a particular performer's career.

What is intriguing about TCM is how many young fans are regular watchers. Considering the overwhelming majority of the films they show are from before 1955, you'd think there would be exclusive appeal to those who are more than a few years into collecting Social Security. But that, apparently, is not true. There are an awful lot of fans that are many years my junior. (I am almost 59.) They are passionate about films that were produced when their grandparents were kids. They are enamored by actors who passed away decades before they entered kindergarten. 

As it gained popularity, TCM began to branch out. In 2010, the first annual TCM Film Festival was presented in Hollywood. The four-day event was hosted by Grauman's Chinese Theater and Grauman's Egyptian Theater, where some of the most-beloved of Hollywood's films were screened for attendees as though it was a religious service. The event drew more and more folks with each subsequent year. During each year's festivities, attendees were interviewed. They were usually dressed in some period clothing that reflected their favorite era of cinema. Twenty-somethings sporting styles that predated their parents presented an interesting, if not anachronistic picture. These fans gushed with delight as they spoke about movies — all movies — like they were their children. Not just the famous movies, but many obscure films starring long-forgotten actors. Actually,  it seemed like they loved every movie, as long as TCM deemed it "classic".... or at least "old."

I love movies and I love interesting tidbits about movies, but I wouldn't classify myself as a "film buff." There are a lot of famous movies that I haven't seen and there are a lot of famous movies that I have seen but don't like. And while I'm "true confessing," there are some very beloved actors that I don't care for at all. A majority of TCM devotees treat all movies from the so-called "Golden Age of Hollywood" as indisputably perfect and required viewing for everyone. And everyone must love each and every one of them.

Recently, I watched three movies on TCM. I came to these movies in different ways, including indirect recommendations and "why have I never seen this?" All three star famous actors, but not necessarily their most famous role. The first was The Hatchet Man, a 1932 pre-Hays Code film. The Hatchet Man is a cringe-worthy seventy-five minutes that shows Hollywood at its racist and demeaning best. It stars Edward G. Robinson, fresh from his star-making turn in the gangster tale Little Caesar. The cast also features 19-year-old Loretta Young and a slew of English actors. The problem is that The Hatchet Man is a story about the Chinese community in San Francisco. While there are plenty of Asian extras roaming the streets, all of the principal roles are played by non-Asian actors in exaggerated make-up and costuming, spouting lines peppered with alleged "ancient Chinese philosophies" in preposterous broken English. The film also features the uncredited Toshia Mori (who is Japanese) as Robinson's Chinese secretary. She is the lone Asian in the cast with a speaking part, albeit a small one. Unfortunately, she is the target of a remark that is both racist and misogynistic in the same sentence. The interesting, sometimes brutal, story sadly takes a backseat to the blatant bigotry. Hollywood viewed Asian culture as a mystic novelty, an attitude it was unable to shake until.... well.... never. I found this film difficult to watch. While the acting was good, the story was thin and clunky in its telling.

A few days later, I watched the 1949 classic film noir The Third Man. I had heard great things about this movie and I wondered why it took me so long to see it. The Third Man consistently shows up on many critic's "greatest" lists, topping the British Film Institute's list of the "Greatest British Film of All Time." That is a pretty big deal. The film stars craggy Joseph Cotton as an American writer who arrives in post-war Vienna to meet his friend, the mysterious Harry Lime. While ringing the bell at Lime's apartment, he is informed that his friend is dead. This unfolds in the first five minutes. A jarring set-up that lays the foundation for what promises to be a wild ride. It is not. It is standard cloak and dagger that has been parodied a zillion times. The action is packed with knowing glances, shadowy figures, two-timing allies and abrupt, unexplained and unnatural changes in personalities. Plus there's a surprise that you can see coming a mile away. Director Carol Reed was obviously influenced by German expressionists, as the cinematography copies The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari as though it was shot with a piece of carbon paper behind it. The "look" of the film seemed more important than the story. At the film's conclusion, I honestly felt cheated.

Finally, I watched Ace in the Hole, a 1951 gritty Kirk Douglas vehicle that was Billy Wilder's first foray as writer, producer and director. This film was a mess in its initial release. At the last minute, the studio changed the title to The Big Carnival without consulting Wilder. The advertising poster is very misleading in its depiction of Kirk Douglas being trapped and in danger. He is not. That is apparent almost immediately,  so that's not a spoiler. Just after its release, Wilder was sued by a screenwriter for plagiarism. All that.... and it bombed at the box office. The story is a none-too-flattering account of media sensationalism and manipulative greed. Douglas is slimy and arrogant and he chews up every last bit of scenery. Co-star Jan Sterling is a stereotypical Hollywood "dame," a one-dimensional, underdeveloped character just there for the men to bounce lines (and slaps) off of. The rest of the cast are stock characters — the unflinching newspaper publisher, the bright-eyed eager photographer, the dim-witted common people. Six years after this movie, screenwriter Budd Schulberg would pen A Face in the Crowd. It is a much better, much darker, much more subtle presentation of essentially the same concept. I actually fell asleep a few times while watching Ace in the Hole, but I found I really missed nothing. That speaks volumes in the way of film editing.

When I talk to people about movies, I am enthusiastic about the ones I like. But, I will recommended films only if I think a particular person will like a particular movie. I don't say "You'll like this!" just because I like it.. However, some TCM fans and those who fancy themselves "film buffs" seem to like every movie they see... even if they don't really like them. They just think they're supposed to like them. I won't criticize you if you don't like a film that I like. That doesn't mean the movie is bad. It just means that we don't share the same opinion on every movie. With that thought fresh in our minds...

Although I won't make any friends with this admission, I will continue my confession. Two of the films I alluded to earlier — Casablanca and Some Like It Hot — are not my favorites. I have watched them both and I don't like either one. I am not a fan of Marilyn Monroe or any of James Dean's movies either.

Oh and I've never seen any sequel to Rocky or The Godfather. Can we still be friends?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

say goodbye to hollywood

I love the "Golden Age" of Hollywood. I am a big fan of  the Turner Classic Movies cable channel. I am fascinated by the scandals of the movie business circa 1930s through 1950s. I savored each and every salacious, albeit equivocal, page of Hollywood Babylon, Ken Anger's sleazy collection of tales from Tinsel Town's seedy underbelly. And, of course, you know about my unnatural obsession with dead celebrities. So, when Mrs. Pincus and I came across Hollywood, a new limited series that just premiered on Netflix this week, we anxiously dove right in.

First blood.

In 2018, multi-award winning "triple threat" Ryan Murphy, the driving force behind the recent hits Glee and American Horror Story, signed a five-year deal with Netflix, setting a record as the most lucrative development deal in television history. Hollywood is the first entry in fulfilling his contract obligations. I have not seen an episode of Glee, but, based on what little bit I have seen and heard, I was not the target audience. As a longtime fan of the horror genre, I watched the first episode of Season Four of American Horror Story: Freak Show. I found it sprawling, unnecessarily atmospheric and tedious in its storytelling. I don't think I even finished watching the full hour. Oh wait, I did... because I remember angrily snapping off the TV when Jessica Lange began anachronistically singing David Bowie's 1971 hit "Life on Mars" during a scene set in 1952. I relented and gave the series another chance. I watched the sixth season of American Horror Story. This one concerned weird goings-on near the site of the mysterious 16th Century Roanoke Colony. I watched all ten episodes and hated every one.

Redemption.

The following year, the Fox Network touted a new limited series from the mind and pen of Ryan Murphy. This one was based on the storied rivalry between two of Hollywood's most iconic actresses — Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, and appropriately entitled Feud. Being a sucker for this type of thing, my wife and I watched... and we loved it. It was trashy and mindless with over-the-top performances from Susan Sarandon and Ryan Murphy regular Jessica Lange. When it was over, we didn't want to to end. I concluded that Ryan Murphy is the "Stephen King of TV trash." (Where as Stephen King is the "Stephen King of movie trash.") Murphy, like King, writes great "middles" of stories. He just doesn't know how to end them, so the endings seem rushed, usually falling flat on its face and well short of expectations. However, Feud worked. Maybe because this story was already written for him... with an actual ending. Murphy was able to concentrate on the tawdry details to embellish an existing story and not be bothered with how to wrap the whole thing up. It was predetermined by the source material.

We're okay now.

Admittedly, I had some trepidation about investing time in to watching Hollywood. I am not really a fan of the majority of Ryan Murphy's work. But the synopsis of Hollywood was compelling. So, we decided to give the first episode a trial viewing. If we liked it, we'd continue. Well, we liked it and continued. Actually, we plowed through all seven episodes in two consecutive evenings. We really liked it. And, frankly, what was not to like? It was trashy, garish, gaudy and — surprisingly — well acted. The actors — a great blend of veteran talent and up-and-comers — were all thoughtfully cast.  The sets and production were meticulous and stellar. The storytelling was typical intertwined "soap opera," but that's what drew us in.

On Saturday, we watched the first four installments. Afterwards, my wife and I cautiously read some comments on various social media outlets, careful to avoid any spoilers. I was surprised by the mostly negative reactions I read. So, I stopped reading, deciding to watch the remaining episodes before passing a full judgment. On Sunday, Mrs. P and I wrapped up the series. We really enjoyed it.

Hollywood is piece revisionist history. I don't think that a good portion of the viewing audience understood that. I think it was presented as a work of "historical fiction," with real historical people mixed with and interacting with made-up characters. Based on a lot of the comments that I read, the concept was not apparent enough to those who expected something different. At first, I was bothered by some historical inaccuracies, but once I "got it," I was more forgiving with the liberties that were taken.

Alongside the comments from folks who missed the concept, were angry rants from those who were going to be offended by Hollywood. Hollywood indeed had a message. Those who were offended by the manner in which the message was presented were going to be offended no matter what. They wanted to be offended. They tuned in to be offended and they were not going to be disappointed. Perhaps they also missed the concept of "revisionist history." Or perhaps they just don't want someone else speaking for them, even if they share the same ideals.

I cannot speak for anyone but myself. I enjoyed Hollywood. It was not the greatest story ever told. It was pure, mindless entertainment. It was not a documentary, nor was I expecting it to be. If the successes and failures, injustices and righteousness, highs and lows of Hollywood strike a chord with you... or if you just want to be entertained, give Hollywood a chance... and draw your own conclusion.

Don't take it from me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

mary, mary

In December, with a house full of out-of-town guests, Mrs. Pincus and I were unable to fulfill our Christmas tradition of going to the movies followed by a dinner of Chinese food. We did, however, make it down to our son's house to feed his cat while he and his girlfriend celebrated the holiday with her family. But, alas, we missed our chance to see the highly-touted and highly-anticipated sequel to Walt Disney's 1964 Oscar-winning film Mary Poppins.

Until last night.

Nearly two months after its release, and with most of the excitement passed, my wife and I ventured out on a weeknight to see the film. We were enticed by an offer of five dollar admission — something we just couldn't turn down. When we arrived at the theater, it seemed that a lot of folks are not swayed by admission prices knocked down to below half off. The place was empty. That's not a compliant. Actually, that's a preference.

In 1964, my Aunt Clara took me to my first movie in a theater... and that movie was Mary Poppins. I loved it. It was bright and colorful, filled with cheerful songs and funny characters. Although I  was 3 years old, I actually remember standing up in my seat and clapping. In subsequent years, I watched Mary Poppins on television and later on a video tape that I purchased. I knew every scene and every song. My wife and I watched it with our son, who came to love it as much as we loved it. It was a bonafide, multi-generational family favorite.

So, when I first heard about the proposal of a sequel to Mary Poppins, I was very, very skeptical. Over fifty years had passed since the beloved original film. Many of the original cast members were too old to reprise their roles. Others were retired from acting while others were deceased. Of course, the new film would be recast. A new story would have to be written. And, with one of the celebrated Sherman brothers — the original's prolific composers — gone, recreating those infectious tunes would be a tall order.

When our opportunity to see Mary Poppins Returns at Christmas did not arise, I wasn't really that disappointed. I really didn't want to see it. I feared that it would tarnish the sparkling memories of the stellar original. But, when a five dollar admission to the movies presents itself, you don't think twice.

At the theater, Mrs. P and I sat through a number of trailers for forgettable films we decided we have no intention of seeing... not even when they are available on Netflix. Then the sparsely-occupied auditorium darkened and the familiar Disney Studio "castle" insignia filled the giant screen. 

I am happy to report that Mrs. P and I were held spellbound for the next 130 minutes. I wanted to dislike Mary Poppins Returns. I really did. But I couldn't. It was irresistible. It was a love letter to the original, loaded with nods and winks and subtle references. It was perfectly cast with the unflappable Emily Blunt capably filling the poised shoes of Oscar winner Dame Julie Andrews. Fresh from Broadway and settling nicely into his role as cheeky "Jack the Lamp Lighter" was the positively magical Lin-Manuel Miranda, whose put-on British accent wasn't nearly as distracting as Dick Van Dyke's attempt 54 years earlier. The supporting cast was spit-spot on. The sets were beautiful. The direction was snappy. The choreography was inspired (well, inspired by the original). The songs were jubilant when they had to be and sad when that was a requirement. Even the animation sequences were artistic homages to the style and characters of a Disney that wasn't out to sell you a time-share.

I seem to be gushing and you seem to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sorry to disappoint, but not this time. I genuinely loved this movie. No snide remarks. No sarcastic asides.

No spoonful of sugar needed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i love the dead

With so much going on in the world — so many important topics up for discussion and debate — I thought I'd focus on a subject that holds the utmost importance to me.

Me.

Specifically, my wonderful and turbulent relationship with the internet. Over a decade ago, I entered the world of the World Wide Web when I published the first entry* on joshpincusiscrying.com, my illustration blog. My blog consisted mostly of entries for the weekly challenge posted on Illustration Friday, a sort-of community of artists from all over the world. Illustration Friday offers a single word of inspiration and allows artists a week to interpret that word until the next Friday brings a new word. I have actively participated in this process for eleven-plus years, never missing a single week (even when Illustration Friday missed a few themselves). I began small, hesitant to post anything controversial, fearful of editorializing, expressing my opinions or — gulp! — causing a stir. In between my weekly drawings, I began to create drawings of my own inspiration, under the category title "from my sketchbook."  But, over time, I began to inject some of my unorthodox sense of humor that has become the unofficial Josh Pincus trademark. 

In 2008, I posted this drawing of aspiring actress Peg Entwistle, who met an untimely demise in 1932. A distraught Peg, weary of the cruel treatment she received from film executives who crushed her glittery dreams of stardom, flung herself from the top of the massive "H" in the famed "Hollywood" sign that loomed over Tinsel Town. My illustration pissed a reader off so much that he contacted me with a series of threatening emails. I was so pleased that someone took that much time and effort with something that I created, I couldn't have been more flattered. As an artist, as far as I'm concerned, there is no such thing as bad publicity. I would rather have my art evoke anger than joy. Anger is a much stronger and more passionate emotion. 

But it didn't end there. I was reprimanded by the admin of another illustration website. I received more threatening emails regarding a drawing I did of session drummer/convicted murderer Jim Gordon. I pissed off a fellow artist who accused me of being a bully. The list goes on and it's all documented under the "About" tab on my blog's homepage.

In 2008, I joined Twitter, which — depending how you look at it — was the best or worst thing I could have ever done. Twitter became the ideal place for Josh Pincus to flourish. It became an outlet for  my jokes, commentary, sarcasm and stream-of-consciousness thought. To date, I have logged over 55,000 tweets. It's a wonder I ever get any work done. Soon, I began to promote my drawings on Twitter. I gained more followers and widened my audience, although, I maintain, that I draw primarily for my own amusement.

Troublemaker

Last year, while looking to amp up my illustration output from what had dwindled to just one per week, I began a new series on my illustration blog. I kicked off 2016 by posting the first drawing in my series I decided to call "Dead Celebrity Spotlight." As I stated in the premiere entry, this would marry two of my prime interests: drawing and celebrities who had passed on. The "drawing" part was obvious. I have been drawing since I was a child. The "dead celebrity" part stems from my love of old Hollywood, chock full of obscure tales of fleeting fame and spectacular deaths and my affinity for visiting cemeteries (yeah, I do that). So, after drawing and writing about a different dead celebrity (some that you recognize, some that you hardly even heard of) every week for an entire year, I continued the series into the current year, adding some special "mid-week" entries as the news of the passing of a beloved and renowned public figure broke. There are (as of right now) one hundred and twelve drawings and stories in the Dead Celebrity Spotlight series. I plan to keep posting new ones every Friday. I hope they garner the reaction that my most recent post achieved.

Early Friday morning, I woke up at 5:45 and, after showering and brushing my teeth and warming up the Keurig, I lumbered up to the third floor of my house to post the daily celebrity death anniversaries on the Josh Pincus Facebook fan page. Then, before heading back downstairs for a cup of coffee, a bowl of Raisin Bran and a couple of episodes of The Andy Griffith Show prior to catching my morning train, I selected a draft from the backlog library of "Dead Celebrity Spotlight" section of my blog to publish. This day, I chose a personal observation of teen idol David Cassidy, whose death just last week at a youthful 67 shocked and saddened a generation of fans who grew up watching and loving him on The Partridge Family. My drawing and commentary went live at 6:19 AM and, little did I know, all hell was about to break loose. My tweet, which is set up to automatically generate from Facebook, got some "likes," some "retweets," and some "replies" — one of which was quite displeased by my sentiment.

A Twitter user named Mar offered this reply:

In typical Josh Pincus fashion, I responded:

I thought this was funny enough to post as a screenshot on my Facebook page as well.

Later, another angered Twitter user, suspiciously calling herself  "Laurie," perhaps as an homage to Susan Dey, David Cassidy's TV sister on the 70s sitcom, expressed her displeasure at the choice of terms I used as the title of my illustration series (on my blog).

This one was puzzling. Was she offended? Really? It's not like I said "Croaked Celebrities," or "Celebrities Now Residing in Box City," or "Lifestyles of the Rotting and Famous," or any number of other derogatory euphemisms for "The Great Beyond." "Dead" is a perfectly good, non-offensive word. Funeral directors, doctors, newscasters, even your mother ("Oh dear, I just heard from Fannie that Milton is dead.") use it all the time. 

So, not being one to drop things until they are thoroughly beaten into submission, I questioned:

Laurie replied:

But the criteria for inclusion in this series is the celebrity has to be dead. Not for any particular length of time, just dead. I have done drawings of celebrities within minutes of the announcement of their death (former Phillies pitcher Roy Halladay comes to mind). I tried to stress this in 140 characters or less, but my confusion hindered my ability to be as articulate as I would have liked. Instead, I returned this:

Her brief retort popped up almost immediately, followed by what is commonly known as  a "kiss-off:"

And, just like that, she was gone. Her portion of the debate ended. Her final summation delivered. As Archie Bunker often proclaimed: "Case closed!"

When I was compiling screenshots to compose this entry on It's Been a Slice, I was met by this message when I visited "Laurie's" Twitter account page:

Now we're talking. Or... maybe we're not.

I said it before, and I'll say it again: Oh, do I love the internet!

* Ironically, that initial entry, in March 2007, featured an illustration of Bill Cosby, whose shattered career has been chronicled in recent headlines. How prophetic of me. I think.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 81 minutes worth of pure Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. Need to clear your house of unwanted guest who have overstayed their holiday welcome? Download this compilation, crank it up and watch those ungrateful freeloaders head for the door. (You may even follow them.)
 You get twenty-seven eclectic Christmas selections that run the gamut from weird to really weird plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!)

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fame, fame, fame, fame...what's your name?

2016 was a rough year for celebrities. Or was it?

I have been tracking celebrity deaths for years. It all started back in 1981, when my brother's roommate at the time burst in to their apartment with the utterly hilarious statement: "The password is 'dead'." Of course, he was reporting the death of noted game-show figure and long-time host of the show Password, Allen Ludden. From there, I took my cue and, considering my slightly skewed sense of humor, there was no turning back.

I attended a small but respected art school in the early 80s. Every morning, before classes began, I would peruse the newspaper with several of my classmates. One morning, in 1983, while we sipped our coffee and pored over the printed accounts of events from the previous day, I stumbled across an obituary for Junior Samples, the hefty, overall-clad bumpkin comedian, famous for his slow delivery and dimwitted demeanor on the syndicated country music variety show Hee Haw. Samples. a former race car driver, carpenter and radio comic was a fixture on the show for fourteen seasons, bumbling his way through flubbed lines and corny jokes. When he died, my demented friends and I tacked his death notice on a school bulletin board, along with the caption: "The world has lost a great man... a great BIG man" alluding to his considerable girth. The joke, while it amused a small contingency of my colleagues, was met with a less than favorable reaction from the rest of the students and faculty. They also didn't care much for our sacrilegious treatment of the passing of singer Ethel Merman almost a year later. (That story is a classic in bad taste. See for yourself HERE.)

After I finished art school and entered the workforce, I encountered a few co-workers who, curiously, shared my absurd view on celebrity deaths. We created a sort-of informal contest to see who could report on the death of a celebrity before anyone else. As the years went on, and the internet and social media entered the equation, I gained a reputation as The Grim Reaper of sorts. Through a network of sources, I have made tracking celebrity deaths an on-going hobby, joining my other macabre pastime of visiting cemeteries. I have compiled an annual "Death Pool" in the final week of every year since 2009, listing a dozen or so celebrities who I think will meet their maker in the new year. I hang on to every minute of every news report wrap-up and award show's "In Memoriam" segment, paying close attention to those who are included and those who are unjustly snubbed. I regularly note celebrity passings on Twitter and Facebook, even becoming a confirming source for other celebrity death watchers (and, oh, there are others).

Which brings us to 2016 and the bad rap it's taken as the most unforgiving year for celebrity deaths. This malevolent notoriety is undeserved, as society's — and even my own — definition of "celebrity" has evolved over the years. "Celebrity" used to apply to movie stars, athletes, politicians, singers and regulars on television shows. Now, anyone with access to a computer and a YouTube channel is a "celebrity." People who were voted off the show on Week One of Survivor or The Bachelorette are considered "celebrities." I, myself, am guilty of foisting "celebrity" status on such folks as the guy who invented the plastic Red Solo cup and the woman who was featured in television commercials for Prince Spaghetti. Of course, my motives are strictly tongue-in-cheek. However, more people have heard of them than have heard of me, so, based on that alone, they are a celebrity at some level.

Also, consider my age. I was born in 1961. I am of a generation that bridges two generations that are significant in the roles they play in pop culture. My generation is a transitional generation. It comes at the tail end of the so-called "Golden Age of Hollywood," as well as the heyday of television hitting its creative stride. Some of the top names that graced the "silver screen" in huge Hollywood productions were now in the twilight of their careers and taking roles in television series in an obvious "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" career move. Screen sirens like Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Blondell were now reduced to roles in weekly dramas with skimpy production values. I would see people from my parents generation pop up on The Tonight Show and I'd have to ask my mom to explain their claim to fame. There are but a handful of stars from that long-gone era who are still with us. Doris Day, who will disputably turn 94 in 2017, Jerry Lewis, who will turn 91 early next year. and Olivia de Havilland, who will pass the century mark next summer, come to mind. When their ultimate time comes, will it matter to anyone under the age of 50? Will anyone from my son's generation even know who they were?

On the other end of the "fame" spectrum, I saw The Beatles transition into the Jackson 5 into New Kids on the Block into Britney Spears into Miley Cyrus. Is Katy Perry's impact on music the same as, say Frank Sinatra's? I would say "no," but someone thirty-five years my junior, with no clue who Sinatra was, would be quick to argue. Will the eventual loss of Lady Gaga elicit the same level of sorrow as the death of Ray Charles or George Harrison? Perhaps not to members of my generation, but how about two and three generations after mine? "Celebrity" and "fame" are relative terms and they have different applications to different generations. I don't think that Ringo Starr's passing will have the same worldwide impact as Paul McCartney's. And I don't know how the passing of Justin Bieber will rate. Not that I am wishing for any of those... well, not actively, anyway. There is also a whole crop of actors and actress and athletes that I don't know. Names from Netflix shows and internet series and a slew of obscure reality shows that I don't watch. There are men and women from sports that I don't follow, not to mention singers whose music I have never heard. But, some fan of theirs, somewhere, years from now, will be upset when they die.

Good riddance.

Sure, some pretty big names died in 2016, but if you look at each one individually, they aren't really that jarring. David Bowie was 69, and while it was definitely a shock, he was sick (although he hid it from the public). Plus, he was a drug user and cigarette smoker for a good portion of his life. Prince, at 57, was discovered to have had a long addiction to opioids. Merle Haggard undoubtedly, led a hard life. William Schallert, George Kennedy, Nancy Reagan and John Glenn were all in their 90s and, whether or not we care to face reality, old people die. Then, there were accidents, like the one that claimed the life of actor Anton Yelchin. Consider all of these situations coupled with the ever-widening label of "celebrity." So, while these deaths were indeed sad, they were not circumstantially extraordinary, 

Unfortunately, I can predict with a fair amount of certainty, more "celebrities" will die in 2017.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

let's go out to a movie

Warning! This post may include some uncharacteristic gushing not normally found on this blog. - JPiC

My love of all things Disney is no secret. I visited Walt Disney World for the first time on the theme park's tenth anniversary. Three years later, I was there on my honeymoon. My family and I have gone on to many, many more trips to the central Florida tourist mecca and have even branched out to the original West Coast park, Disneyland. Plus, for goodness sake, this is in my house, covertly concealed behind an unassuming door on the third floor.

Even though, our son has grown and moved into his own house, my wife and I still look for excuses to see Disney movies. While the majority of them don't appeal to us (i.e. the recent Tinkerbell "female empowerment" series comes to mind, as well as throwaways like the Pixar self-ripoff Planes* and its sequel), there are a few that we'd still like to see on the big screen. It's kind of weird, though for two adults, over 50, to sit in the audience of a kids' movie, obviously unaccompanied by kids — especially in these times of overly-suspicious parents and child predators. Once, we went to an early mid-week, school-night showing of the Winnie the Pooh movie, where were assured the audience would be small and mostly child-free. (We were right.) Other times, we just unashamedly purchased tickets for a special 3-D release of The Nightmare Before Christmas, because — goddammit! — it's one of our favorite movies!

Just the other day, my wife's friend Pinta asked if we would like to join her and her family to see the new live-action version of Disney's classic princess tale Cinderella. Pinta was a student in one of my wife's classes way back in another lifetime when Mrs. P taught nursery school in the early 80s. Now, so many years later, Mrs. P reconnected (via the all-powerful Facebook) with Pinta, who is now an attorney and married with two children. Whether we like it or not Pinta is now our peer. We happily accepted the invitation, seeing Pinta's kids as the perfect cover to see a movie of which we were decidedly not the target audience.

We met Pinta at the theater. She and her children had already selected seats and were now munching popcorn and ignoring the pre-show advertisements, until, of course an ad for a new Nintendo game splashed colorfully across the massive screen. The audience filled and the air was thick with the high-pitched excited chatter of children ages 3 to 9. Mrs. P engaged Pinta's children in animated conversation until the film began. (Among her many talents, my wife is a real-life Pied Piper.)

Soon, the lights dimmed and screen came alive with a short animated film based on and starring the characters from Disney's wildly popular film Frozen. The audience paid full and close attention, a rarity for a film geared towards the younger population. Next was Cinderella, the feature presentation.

After the disappointment that was Maleficent (an over-hyped live-action retelling of the animated Sleeping Beauty), I really didn't have a whole lot of hope for Cinderella. However, as the movie progressed, I found myself really enjoying it. The film was beautifully and imaginatively shot, with unexpected and daring camera angles. The storytelling — the most important part of a children's movie — was right on the money. While it got a wee bit heady at times (expecting a young moviegoer to endure three parental deaths was asking a lot), but it did not dwell on any scenes longer than necessary. The film, while suitably grandiose and regal, moved its 112-minute runtime along at a pretty good clip. It was a satisfying spectacle and, based on the silence in the theater, it held the interest of the audience, both young and old.

At the helm.

Scene stealers.

I think Disney realized its errors with Maleficent and made a conscious effort to remedy them with Cinderella, First off, they secured veteran actor-director Kenneth Branagh to helm the project. After allowing first (and so far only) time director Robert Stromberg to direct Maleficent, they went with a seasoned and proven director, fresh from calling the shots on the blockbuster money-making super hero flick Thor. Then, the folks at Disney nabbed two-time Oscar winner Cate Blanchett for the role of Cinderella's evil stepmother. Branagh signed his one-time domestic partner, the always reliable and always quirky Helena Bonham Carter for the small, but pivotal role of the Fairy Godmother. Exhibiting a skewed take on the animated version of "Lady Tremaine," Blanchett commanded attention and devoured the scenery in every screen appearance, playing the part as an understated and restrained version of Al Pacino's "Big Boy Caprice" from Dick Tracy. Bonham Carter, outfitted with a set of exaggerated false teeth and an impossibly billowy gown, likewise stole the show in a screen appearance that lasted no more that ten minutes. The supporting players, including the youthful leads (Downton Abbey's Lily James and Game of Thrones' Richard Madden), were expertly cast and wonderfully entertaining. The film locked its young audience in a state of bewilderment, enchantment and — best of all — silence for a little over an hour and a half, a difficult feat in these times of constant distraction and short attention spans.

Cha-CHING!

Disney has plans for several more live-action versions of selections from its vast library of animated features, including Beauty and the Beast and the recently-announced Dumbo under the direction of eccentric visionary Tim Burton. Disney has tapped a veritable gold mine, making, remaking and releasing films without paying a dime in additional licensing. They already own the rights to these films and need only market them, something at which Disney is a proven master. They are essentially printing their own money, something they technically already do.

If Disney learns from and improves with each subsequent release, they will undoubtedly be successful with this little motion picture endeavor. Inexplicably, it is something no other studio has attempted.

As a Disney stockholder, I have a lot of faith in the House that Mouse built.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Planes was released under the Disney Studios banner. Although Pixar, the studio that created Cars, is owned by Disney, it is run as a separate entity. But, because Disney, the greatest marketer in the world, owns Pixar, they can do whatever they want with its characters. It's a pretty good benefit for being a multifaceted entertainment conglomerate.