'Devil' in Little Rock

No, I'm not talking about Hannah Montana's appearance tomorrow at Alltel Arena. I'm talking about what is likely the most critically-acclaimed movie of the year, Sidney Lumet's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, finally opening in L.R.

The crime thriller with Philip Seymour Hoffman, Ethan Hawke, Marisa Tomei and Albert Finney opened at the Market Street Cinema today.

Amen, brother.

Stephen King, of all folks, perfectly articulates the shabby state of our culture's sick obsession with celebrity and the media's role in cultivating such crap.

Great read. Though, I still think I'll skip The Mist.

"Happiness is only real if shared."

Christopher McCandless, the doomed Emory University graduate who tossed everything to live the life of a hopeful vagabond criss-crossing America in the early-1990s, scribbled the above quote days before he died of starvation, alone, in a dilapidated bus in rural Alaska where he had been living for months.

The colorful short life of McCandless -- chronicled in Jon Krakauer's book, Into the Wild, and now in the mesmerizing and beautiful Sean Penn film adaptation of the same name -- can be viewed as a spoiled kid posturing through a pretentious rebellion against his troubled, yet privileged, youth. Or, as Penn suggests, his rebellion could also have been a valid attempt to exorcise the past through experiencing life on his own romantic Thoreau-inspired terms.

Into the Wild, the movie, ultimately presents McCandless as somewhat of a tragic figure: two years of a bountiful life full of individualistic adventures and searching, a life where his passion for living touched all he encountered on his journey still ended with his solitary death in a mammoth wilderness so far from the world.

This, however, doesn't make his journey, or the film, seem like a waste. To the contrary, until his lonely passing, the paths McCandless (embodied in a wonderful performance by Emile Hirsch) chose -- whatever his disillusioned intentions -- crammed a lifetime of passion into his short time on Earth. Of course, the very nature of cinema lends itself to romanticizing the celluloid heroes, but with Krakauer's investigations, there was no question that those with whom McCandless shared his nomadic quest were touched by the young man's enthusiastic zeal for the possibilities of this world. The hippie couple (portrayed in the film by the always wonderful Catherine Keener and newcomer Brian Dierker) who saw him as a younger vessel of themselves. The wild farmer (Vince Vaughn) whose wild ways were somewhat tempered by the naivety of McCandless. And, of course, the elderly religious widower (portrayed, in a deeply felt performance, by Hal Holbrook) whose lonely life was turned topsy-turvy by the entry into his world of McCandless, the possible embodiment of a son whose life was lost decades earlier.

It's telling that Penn, of all people, paints a strong spiritual significance to the story of McCandless, where Krakauer tended to discount such ideals. Christ-like imagery of the innocent hero floating naked down a river in a crucifix pose; the hippie dude asking if McCandless could walk on water; and a stirring, emotional scene on a mountain where the widower and McCandless touch on the nature of God -- all of these moments (not to mention the last few minutes depicted of McCandless' life) point to a deeply felt appreciation of a divine touch in our lives and in the life of McCandless.

It's also telling that in Krakauer's book, he notes the widower renounced God when he learned of the young man's lonely passing. That Penn left that point out of the film perhaps shows that, despite one sad man's disillusionment, the life of Christopher McCandless was, indeed, somewhat of a spiritual touchstone that one cannot overlook.

Thus far, 2007 has been a knock-out year for cinema, and I have yet to see The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, There Will Be Blood and I'm Not There. Into the Wild is a significant accomplishment by Sean Penn that will be remembered when one looks back to this productive cinematic year. By all means, add it to your viewing list.

"Then I woke up."

Just got back from seeing the Coen Brothers note-by-note adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's violent elegy for a lost age, No Country for Old Men. Regular browsers to this site and my column know I've long been a sucker for the brutal poet McCarthy, and knowing the gifted Coen brothers were turning their attention to Men for the film adaptation made this movie a must-see on my list, even though I really haven't been in the mood for cinema these days (that's another story, ain't it?).

I remember reading the novel a few years ago, and it's scary how close the brothers Coen vision came to mine as I took in the book. That's what I meant by the "note-by-note" comment above (not meaning "note-by-note" as negatively predictable). And also don't misunderstand: I'm certainly not saying my imagining the book as the Coens have indicates that I'm just as smart as they are. That's hardly the case. What I mean is McCarthy's novel is likely his most cinematic, yet bare-bones narrative, but it's also rich with visual (cinematic?) information. The first image in my head of Sheriff Ed Tom Bell when reading the book was Tommy Lee Jones, and Javier Bardem, who was sparking some American cinematic interest when the novel was first released, really did figure in my head as the the ghostly, earthly presence of evil, Anton Chigurh. As for the tragic welder, Llewelyn Moss, who stumbles on the remains of a Mexican drug deal gone bad and steals away with a case stuffed with $2,000,000 in cash, I didn't picture Josh Brolin, but then, I didn't really picture any famous actor in my head in the role of Moss. I don't know why. But the actors aren't the point. There were so many locations and events in the novel that are depicted and played out on-screen almost verbatim in the manner they unfolded in my head, it was as if I was reading a screenplay instead of a book.

Movies and stories that don't take the road we expect as viewers and readers are the ones that stick for me. As in the novel, No Country evolves as a terrifying game between two men playing cat and mouse and the poor unfortunate souls who are caught in between. But it's the last third of both page and screen that turn everything on its head: one major character suddenly and without fanfare is killed; the violent tension comes to a standstill; and the story ends abruptly -- yet with a tragic and poetic sense of everything that has come before.

All of this rambling is to say, No Country for Old Men is a great film -- one that will be remembered for ages. Much talk has been made of the final minutes of the movie, the ambiguity with which we are left. But that, to me, is great art. Art is not something that is delivered, predictably, on a silver platter. It's something we must question...even if it isn't pretty. It has to be real.

T. Blanston Returns!

Here now, for your advance reading pleasure, is T. Blanston, Jr.'s next piece for Arkansas Weekly. It will be published in the Nov. 28 issue.

Greetings from Rancho Paradiso, my gorgeous getaway from the adventurous life I lead as an award-winning and ruggedly handsome journalist reporting from the front lines of war, terrorism and Hollywood nights with Paris Hilton and crew.

My ranch, which is hidden away on a 5,000 acre tract of land that overlooks Loch Greers Ferry, has not only been an idyllic escape from my everyday life of dodging bullets and the advances of Britney Spears, but it’s also been a place where I can bring my many famous friends for a much-needed retreat.

And my friends are many. And famous.

Take a recent weekend when I hosted presidential candidate (and former Arkansas resident) Hillary Clinton; Desperate Housewives star Eva Longoria; legendary actor Robert De Niro; 60 Minutes reporter Mike Wallace; and Arkansas football coach Houston Dale Nutt.

I flew the guests in my private jet to the Batesville airport on a Friday afternoon where my newly-hired assistant Ivanka Trump picked them up in my newly-purchased Hummer (which, by the way, I’ve personally engineered to get four miles per gallon just to irritate the environmentalists). After stopping six times for gas, the crew finally made it to Rancho Paradiso where my newly-hired personal chef, Giada De Laurentiis, served a delicious post-travel snack of mozzarella and tomatoes smothered in deviled ham and gravy from Spam.

Wine was poured. Cigars were lit. Good times were ahead.

As the autumn sun set over the loch, I summoned my newly-hired stenographer, CNN’s Anderson Cooper, to record some of the stimulating conversation of the evening. Here are some highlights:

BLANSTON: Please, Sen. Clinton, I’d appreciate it if you would get off my lap.

CLINTON: Oh, of course…

LONGORIA: Oh, T., may I sit on your lap?

BLANSTON (long sigh): Oh, if you must. But only for a few moments.

NUTT: Heh…I love sittin’ on laps. Really comfortable. Papa Broyles has a really comfy lap. You’d think he wouldn’t. You’d think it’d be sorta bony. But, nope. He’s got real strong thighs for a fella his age.

DE NIRO: I think I’m gonna be sick.

BLANSTON: Mike, tell us what you’re working on for 60 Minutes.

WALLACE: Hold on for a sec…Anderson, I’d appreciate it if you got off my lap.

COOPER: Oh, sorry.

WALLACE: Now, what was that T.?

BLANSTON (slightly louder): I SAID TELL US WHAT YOU’RE WORKING ON FOR 60 MINUTES!

WALLACE: Oh, yes. Well, at my age, one thing I’m working on for a good sixty minutes is a decent bowel movement.

LONGORIA: Ewww…that’s gross.

NUTT: Papa Broyles tells me he’s pretty regular. That’s good. Says lots of celery is the key. It’s the key!

DE NIRO: I think I’m gonna be sick.

BLANSTON: Let’s change the subject, shall we?

LONGORIA: T., when can we get in the hot tub?

CLINTON: T., I’d really like to discuss some foreign policy issues with you…alone…first…in, um, the hot tub…if I could.

DE NIRO: I think I’m gonna be sick.

BLANSTON: Ladies, ladies…I assure you hot tub time is on the agenda. First, let’s ask Coach Nutt how he feels about the upcoming match-up with Tennessee. Coach Nutt?

NUTT: Thanks, T.! Really appreciate the opportunity to be here! T., here’s what’s gonna happen when we meet the Volunteers. First: we’re gonna get on the field! That’s important! We gotta get on the field! To play the game! I think anyone will tell you that if we’re not on the field, we’re not gonna win the game! So we gotta be on the field! Then, we gotta get the football! We gotta get the football! And, this is important, we gotta get the football in the end zone! Cause, I think we all can agree, that we’re not gonna win the game if we don’t get the football in the end zone! And, as long as we get the football in the end zone more times than Tennessee, we got a real good chance at winning! Real good chance!

DE NIRO: ‘Scuse me for a second. ‘Scuse me. I’m not really a college football aficionado sos to speak, but um, Coach Nutts…

NUTT: That’s Nutt, Bob. Nutt. Singular.

DE NIRO: Yeah, whatever. So, all that stuff you mentioned about getting on the field, getting the football in the end zone…that’s your grand strategy?

NUTT: Yes sir. Yes sir. I done run it by Papa Broyles and his wife this morning. She was feeding him some Cream of Wheat, and he was noddin’ and all that while I was talkin’ and such. The Cream of Wheat kept dribblin' down his chin and such, but --

DE NIRO: And, you’re being paid a few million dollars a year to do this? To implement these…what’d you call ‘em? Strategies?

NUTT: Yes sir. Yes sir. You bet.

DE NIRO: I think I’m gonna be sick.

* * *

And with that, I end this glimpse into an exciting evening at Rancho Paradiso with me, T. Blanston, Jr.

I hope all of you had a great Thanksgiving, and until next time, I’ll keep the hot tub bubbling!

I usually don't curse on this blog, but...

HOLY SHIT!!!

Our national nightmare is over!

Paige is coming back to Trading Places!!!

NY Times Reviews Steve Martin's New Book

I posted earlier about the charming excerpt from Steve Martin's new comedy memoir, Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life, that was in a recent issue of The New Yorker. Now, The New York Times has a review of the book. Janet Maslin, former film critic for the Times, has the honors.

Born Standing Up hits bookshelves on Tuesday.

Or SMU?

Well, now the guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy says it might also be SMU.

See my previous post.

Nutt to Baylor?

For all you Razorback football fans, here's some juicy gossip: Houston Nutt is heading to Baylor.

According to a guy I know who knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy, it's a 100% done deal.

Of course, this is the same guy who also said Bobby Knight was going to take over for Stan Heath in Razorback basketball.

Steve Martin's new book

I've been rummaging through my old mail, and I came across the October 29, 2007 issue of The New Yorker, in which a sweet excerpt ("In the Bird Cage") from Steve Martin's forthcoming memoir, Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life, is featured.

The online edition of The New Yorker does not have the excerpt posted, but if the rest of the book is like this charming and bittersweet snapshot, Martin's look back at his comic roots should be a little treasure.

Happy birthday to me!

Happy birthday, Rob! You're 41 years old today, although might I add, you look ten years younger. Great job! Sure, you're a tad pale, your hair is prematurely Liquid Paper-white, and you're currently in the center of the El Nino of male personal struggles -- the mid-life crisis, but other than that, you can still fit snugly into a pair of your 34W blue jeans from 1993, and you haven't had to call the Hair Club for Men...yet.

Let's look at some things you've accomplished over the years, shall we?

Except for that embarrassing and misunderstood incident involving the stalking of Miss University of Arkansas 1986, you made it through college without having any type of major criminal charges filed.

You made it safely through the ages of 18 to 34 without being drafted into any type of military service.

Your health problems -- concussion at age 3, nail in foot at age 8, severe acne during ages 12 through 16, major case of jock itch at age 17, broken hand at age 29, and a blood clot at age 40 -- have been somewhat minor over the years. Emotionally, however, it's been an unpredictable and somewhat unpleasant ride -- particularly when you realized the true meaning behind the song, "In the Navy," and when you accidentally came across the Gennifer Flowers pictorial in Penthouse.

But, most importantly, there are two blessings that overwhelm all the other gifts and adversities that have been sprinkled through your life: you have two astoundingly special and beautiful children that, for you, completely embody and personify the word "love."

So, happy birthday! May you have a blessed 41 more and beyond.

This week's Arkansas Weekly column...

I went to the Fayetteville Barnes & Noble this morning, picked up a couple of magazines, the local paper and the New York Times.

I also thought I could use a good book, so I took some time to browse. I haven’t read a decent novel or non-fiction title in a while because nothing in the literary world has really sparked my interest. I thumbed through political humorist Stephen Colbert’s I Am America (And So Can You!), but nothing really cracked me up. I was halfway interested in buying the biography of Peanuts creator Charles Schulz, but I’m not really into learning that Snoopy’s mastermind was a deeply depressed individual for most of his life. I thought about picking up Harlan Coben’s 2001 mystery Tell No One because word has it that it’s been turned into a terrific French film, but then I thought I could just wait and see the movie.

And then it hit me: I was obviously looking for reasons not to buy a book. Those were three perfectly acceptable titles, yet I was trying to find some small and insignificant fault in them. Which was silly because the bookstore was stuffed with books I would never purchase in my life. In fact, just for fun, I started mentally compiling titles of books that I would never buy.

Books like Donald Trump’s latest masterpiece: Think Big and Kick Ass in Business and Life. Would someone please slap this man? And while you’re at it slap that Dog Whisperer guy, Cesar Millan, who also has a new book. Why do people fall for stuff like this? Dogs have no idea what we are saying, all right? They are dogs. They do not understand English, Spanish, Hindu, Klingon, etc., etc. They ain’t gonna respond to Donald Trump, the Dog Whisperer, or Dog the Bounty Hunter.

Speaking of Dog the Bounty Hunter: I’m never going to buy his book, menacingly titled You Can Run But You Can’t Hide. Seeing that, as of this writing, Dog might be out of a television gig due to some racist comments he made, there’s a good chance people aren’t going to be running to the bookstore to buy this title.

I generally enjoy reading Christopher Hitchens as well as listening to his sarcastic commentary on some of the news programs, but I’m going to ignore his latest book, God Is Not Great, because God is great, and I’m quite sick of The Man Upstairs being ridiculed as well as the act of believing in Him. Shut up and have another scotch, Christopher.

I know I will skip Lyrics by Sting. I like The Police and some of Sting’s solo stuff, but paying $28 to read “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” is like buying a book by a man who whispers to canines.

Any book by Bill O’Reilly, Lou Dobbs, Ann Coulter or Glenn Beck can be scratched off my list. Blowhards, they all are. (That last comment, coming from me, is somewhat like the pot calling the kettle black, no?)

I am quite certain that I won’t be reading The Heroin Diaries by Motley Crue musician Nikki Sixx. True tales of a drug abusing heavy metal musician hitting rock bottom by waking up in his own defecation really isn’t my cup of tea.

Finally, any book by L. Ron Hubbard won’t end up on my bookshelf, but if I’m in the mood for a good laugh someday, I might change my mind.

* * *

I did purchase The Rejection Collection, Vol. 2; it’s a set of cartoons by various artists that were rejected for being too crude for the esteemed weekly magazine, The New Yorker.

My wife bought the first volume of The Rejection Collection for me last year, knowing I have a truly demented sense of humor. The new book contains such jewels as a little boy coming home with bloody stumps where his hands were, excitedly proclaiming to his mother in the kitchen, “Look, ma!” Look, ma, no hands indeed.

Other twisted contributions: a sad-looking little girl finding her doll house burned to a crisp and her three little doll house family members laid outside with blankets covering their bodies; a nurse standing over an obviously dead patient, reading his temperature and excitedly proclaiming: “Oh my, your fever’s way down!”; and shocked partygoers giving the Heimlich to a witch while a man stands in front of her mouth, exclaiming, “Keep pushing – I can see the baby’s head!”

Tasteless, but hilarious stuff, no?

Goulet checks out -- part two

Okay...this is just wrong.

But why am I laughing?