Welcome to the 20th annual Wriphe.com Superman Month! What a nice, round, mature number.

This time last year, DC Comics was celebrating the impending release of their latest Superman movie with the "Summer of Superman" publishing initiative. One year later, Superman is literally nowhere to be seen in the DC Universe. Earlier this year, the Man of Steel won a tournament to the death and then disappeared from existence. His comic books are still being published with various children in his stead in a storyline that DC is calling "Reign of the Superboys." DC tells us it is selling very well, but the Superman fans I know don't seem very enthusiastic. I don't blame them. Who wants to pay $5 for a comic that doesn't feature their titular hero?

"Who wants to pay $5 for a comic?" I hear you asking. You make a good point. But this month is about Superman, not the economics of nostalgia.

I also hear some of you you asking, "Who cares about Superman?" I do, for one, and not just for nostalgic reasons. Superman might be a morally inflexible overgrown boy scout in bright pajamas, but at my advancing age, I increasingly enjoy the company of strong characters who still believe that Truth, Justice, and the American Way aren't all mutually incompatible.

Superman: The Man of Steel #80, June 1998

Yeah, he can be a bit preachy. Nobody's perfect.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: comic books superman

40/2610. The Naked Gun (2025)
Do you remember how they used to say that Airplane! ruined Leslie Neilson's career? Will this do the same for Liam Neeson's post-Taken money train? In any case, it's a worthy successor to the Zucker/Abrams/Zucker originals (superior, even to 33-1/3), but it stuck in my craw that this movie that does not shy away from poking many other influences with a sharp stick never mentions the fact that it's core plot is essentially the same as The Kingsman.

54/2624. Take This Job and Shove It (1981)
It so happens that I watched this about a month before David Allen Coe died, and I'm glad I did so that I had that mental reference when reading his obituary. The film suffers from a weak budget and some rather obvious re-editing, presumably to make a messy script work, but I'm happy to say it's plenty of fun as a silly working-class comedy of its era.

Although Take This Job and Shove It is drenched in beer, there's still time for the Pause that Refreshes! I suspect the Coca-Cola soda fountain in the background of one of the protagonist's many internal struggles between his professional and personal ideologies was already installed in the shooting location as opposed to paid product placement, but much of the plot is made of the cultural value of American brands (which I found somewhat ironic in an age where Budweiser is owned by a Belgian conglomerate), so it's possible that this obvious bit of background imagery could be intended by the director as an intentional, somewhat subtle in the context of the film, reinforcement of the Good Ol' USA.

41/2611. Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (1974)
TCM airs this all the time, so I finally made myself watch it. I'm glad I did. It's very good, an atypical Scorsese movie that proves he's capable of so much more than just gangster films.

Speaking of questionable product placement, there's no way that the Coca-Cola Company approved their IP being used in a gory death scene, which reinforces that the dead man being a lazy Coca-Cola delivery driver was probably a choice by Scorsese to dramatize the pitfalls of the commercialization of the American Dream, a key element in spurring Alice's Campbellian hero's journey of self discovery. In other words, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a (bloody) Coke!

42/2612. Operation Crossbow (1965)
A pre-cursor to the formula perfected by The Dirty Dozen, the Brits and Americans work together on a suicide mission to scuttle the German rocket program. Sophia Loren gets top billing for a small and completely pointless part that exists only to attract (and, I'm sure, disappoint) her fans.

More to come.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: coke movies

35/2605. Odd Man Out (1947)
I read that Roman Polanski, Sam Peckinpah, and Gore Vidal considered this to be among their favorite noir movies, but I agree with some of its contemporary critics that after a fantastically engaging start, it loses its way as it staggers (and then crawls) to its unsatisfying (but necessary?) conclusion.

36/2606. Critic's Choice (1963)
Sixties sex comedies are not my bag, baby, and it doesn't help that Bob Hope and Lucille Ball don't really have any sexual chemistry. But it's a mild enough example of the genre to be an inoffensive way to pass an afternoon.

37/2607. Toy Story 4 (2019)
Purposelessness. Abandonment. Loneliness. Death. Toy Story movies go hard and are always worth the effort to watch (though my fingers).

38/2608. Two Weeks with Love (1950)
The A plot of this MGM musical with Jane Powell and Ricardo Montalban is fine, but "little sister" Debbie Reynolds steals every scene she is in, especially singing "Aba Daba Honeymoon."

39/2609. One Battle After Another (2025)
Now that I've seen this, Paul Thomas Anderson's recent Oscar feels more like a career retrospective award. I do not think this is his best work, certainly no better than Licorice Pizza or Inherent Vice. Full disclosure requires I admit that I am no particular fan of Magnolia or Boogie Nights, either, but I agree Anderson is a rare talent and I do not begrudge the industry eventually recognizing it.

For an underground militant revolutionary radio DJ, that's a pretty prominent Coca-Cola can.

More to come.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: coke movies

Seeing that this blog doubles as my personal diary, I feel I need to make note of the passing of Friend Michael, killed too young by cancer.

Rummaging around my archives for a pic of Mike to commemorate the sad occasion, I found this, taken (probably by James) in the parking lot of Medieval Times in Lawrenceville in June 2013.

Talking comic books and acting like big dorks. Yeah, I think pretty accurately encapsulates our three decade friendship.

Thanks for the good times, Mike.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: death friends georgia james lawrenceville mike superman

There is a restaurant a few miles from my house that is built in a literal pit. You can barely see the marquee sign from the road level, and, if you aren't already on the lookout for it, the building might as well be invisible. The property was built many years ago for a now-defunct family dining concept, and in the years since, one business after another has occupied the property for a brief couple of years, gone out of business, and been replaced by another business.

Driving past the building this weekend (and seeing only two cars in the parking lot), I caught myself wondering how much longer it could possibly stay open before it closes and the pattern repeats itself. Then I realized that the current business, a steakhouse, has been in place since 2020. That's six years, actually about average for the lifespan for a restaurant and even more impressive considering the Pandemic and malingering economic concerns.

Should I pretend that I didn't notice its longevity? When it does inevitably close, as all restaurants eventually must, should I still roll my eyes and quip that I was correct that their location doomed them to failure? Do I need to be right so badly that I'll ignore reality to salve my wounded ego? What would that sort of denial accomplish?

The restaurant is a success whether I want to admit it or not.

Let that be a lesson to myself: you need to recognize when you've allowed your biases to corrupt your thinking, because otherwise, in addition to the loneliness of living in your own alternate reality, you also just might stave to death.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: covid19 morals newnan walter

Over the weekend, a friend asked what I would do if I suddenly came into ten million dollars, no strings attached. My glib answer at the time was to refuse it. "What am I going to spend it on, art supplies?"

In hindsight I realize that when he asked the question, he knew something I didn't: a mutual friend had just received about the worst diagnosis a doctor can give. If there's anything money definitely can't buy, it's enough time.

As a wise general once said: "a death mark's not an easy thing to live with." But really, that's what we do every day. Life, by definition, is "the brief and futile struggle against inevitability." Not thinking about that truism is a psychological defense mechanism, a survival tactic. Skiing provides a good metaphor: look at the trees and you'll hit them, so we focus on the space in between instead. That's how we get by.

Being forced to look at the trees (memento mori as those pesky Romans say) is a good prompt to re-evaluate my current life choices. If I knew the end was near, would I be doing something differently? Are there experiences I'm missing? I have to say that even after some introspection, I can't really think of anything meaningful to me that I'm not already doing, that I've postponed, that I've sacrificed. I'm really lucky in that way, and I know it.

On the other other hand though, it's possible I'm wrong about why my friend was asking about the money. If he was actually thinking about giving me $10,000,000? Yes, please. I'll think of something to do with it. I'd hate for my obituary to say I passed up a fortune just because I aspire to nothing more than sitting with my dogs and playing video games.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: friends walter

If you've read the news in the past few weeks, you may have a little trouble figuring out what the word "terrorism" actually means these days. It's being thrown around a lot to cover a lot of situations. So let's see if we can help clarify.

Merriam-Webster.com: ter·​ror·​ism, n: the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion.

Wiktionary.com: terrorism (usually uncountable, plural terrorisms) The use of unlawful violence against people or property to achieve political objectives.

Kids.Britannica.com: (under ter​ror​ism) Terrorists are people who use fear to try to change society.

As you can see, performing "terrorism" generally requires intent that the act would intimidate others into compliance with your desires out of a sense of fear. Darth Vader was a terrorist; he made his Imperial officers watch him kill their leaders so they would be too afraid to question his amoral orders. On the other hand, Freddy Krueger was not a terrorist; he was just a monster who enjoyed killing people.

The October 7 attack on Israel was an act of terrorism. The September 11 attack on America was an act of terrorism. Wearing white sheets and burning crosses in front yards has always been terrorism. Shootings on school campuses can be terrorism, but they can also just be murder. Trafficking drugs is itself not generally an act of terrorism, but in the right situation with the wrong sorts of people (like The Joker), it could be. Holding protest rallies is not terrorism (so long as there's no threat of violence). Fleeing across political borders, while illegal, is not terrorism (because people themselves are not inherently terrifying or seeking to force societal change by standing on one side or the other of an imaginary boundary).

Trying to escape police, while possibly unwise, is definitely not terrorism. Likewise, shooting someone in self defense, even if you were wrong to think you were in danger, is not terrorism either. But a hypothetical case of encouraging lethal force to subdue a fleeing suspect so others will think twice about trying to escape if they find themselves in the same situation? That's Darth Vader territory.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: death dictionary fuck you america news

Look, I love Benson Boone's "Mystical Magical" as much as the next guy, but after hearing it in every commercial break since ESPN's coverage of the U.S. Open used it for intro and outro bumpers in August through this week's NFL coverage, maybe there is such a thing as overexposure.

I'm not alone in thinking that. There is, Google assure me, a pretty sizable backlash to the rapid, overt commercialization of Mr. Boone's music. Selling out is fine in America; greed, not so much. The singer and his team are aware of this, and his music video for "Mr. Electric Blue" makes a good-natured joke of it by removing any hint of the hypocrisy that pollutes the modern zeitgeist. (Yes, despite being an old fogey who doesn't really care for music, I do watch music videos on YouTube as the Internet Gods intended. The old-school media's widely reported recent death of Music Television has been greatly exaggerated; music videos are not dead, linear television is.)

It's kind of a funny thing to say that you could hear any piece of music "too much." Despite the tendency of human beings (at least American human being) to resent the familiar, there are a bunch of songs I just never get tired of hearing. Back in the day when I was a waiter at Chili's, the chain played tapes of licensed music over and over until the entire wait staff would gather around the back office cassette player and argue over which tapes management was NOT allowed to play again that day. (No tapes were ever destroyed, but some were occasionally hidden. I hope they still haven't been found.) Despite the repetition, there was one song on those tapes that I could never get sick of. I bet you'd never guess that it was "Silly Love Songs" by Wings. Live and let die, indeed.

Several Paul McCartney songs, both with and without co-writer John Lennon, are high on my list of endless listening, which probably demonstrates that I have a high tolerance for what McCartney is interested in writing: the poppiest of pop music. Fizzy, friendly, sugary pop music. Overproduced sounds that have a good beat and you can dance to, lyrics that really shouldn't be thought about too hard. That's my jam. Music crafted to please the widest possible music-illiterate crowd, "Moonbeam ice cream" sort of stuff, like Dua Lipa, Katie Perry, Madonna, Michael Jackson, or, say, Olivia Newton John.

And please crowds they do. Why else would Madison Avenue adapt catchy tunes for advertising in Apple product ads or the memorable '90s Philips campaign that used the Beatles "Getting Better" (somehow always fading out just before the "it can't get no worse" refrain) or this year's sanitized-for-Christmas "Greased Lightnin'" (with zero creaming girls) or Target's 2025 commercials of their animated Get-Ready Yeti dancing to "Mystical Magical."

Okay, fine. I'm not sick of moonbeam ice cream just yet. 'Cause once you know, once you know...

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: advertising dear diary music

I got into a polite disagreement about the relative merits of Breakfast at Tiffany's with Friend Ken, who admitted he has never much enjoyed movies from the late 50s through early 70s. Breakfast at Tiffany's aside, my uncultured friend is not entirely wrong. Obviously things did start to go a bit stale as the American Studio System died a slow death, but that doesn't mean there weren't movies worth watching in the 1960s. For example:

1960: Inherit the Wind with Tracy and Kelly taking turns stealing scenes. The Apartment deserves its Oscar for its sharp script, but I still prefer to watch (and listen to) The Magnificent Seven.

1961: Judgment at Nuremberg is still topical, as evidenced by the fact they just revisited it. I'm particularly fond of Murder, She Said, a fantastic whodunnit with a great theme. Of course, I hear Breakfast at Tiffany's is also pretty good.

1962: To Kill a Mockingbird. If you don't like that, we can't be friends (although I cannot tell you how many times I've watched The Music Man and Gypsy).

1963: Lilies of the Field has Poitier at his best, but I'm a sucker for Charade (which is not a Hitchcock film; his 1963 effort is The Birds which I also like very much).

1964: The Umbrellas of Cherborg is simply brilliant (best movie of the decade?), and if you like musicals, also A Hard Day's Night. Everyone has already seen Goldfinger, right? The template for all action spy movies to come.

1965: Bunny Lake is Missing. Yes, it's a lesser Otto Preminger film, but I'll take lesser Preminger over the likes of The Sound of Music and Doctor Zhivago any day.

1966: A Man for All Seasons won Oscar for a reason, but the tide is turning from the hackneyed films of yesteryear and there are a bunch of films from '66 that have entered enduring classic status, including Batman and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

1967: Hotel. I just love it. Actually, there's a lot to love about '67. I'm especially partial to In the Heat of the Night and the original Peter Cook/Dudley Moore Bedazzled, but you could throw a dart at most movies released this year and not come out too badly.

1968: The Phantom Tollbooth, because I grew up with it and was idly thinking about Subtraction Stew just yesterday. And while this is the year of Bullitt which stands up really well as an action film, I'd recommend The Swimmer as a hidden gem.

1969: Putney Swope is well outside the envelope of what came before it, but so are so many of the films of the year. I've seen quite a few movies from '69, when the cultural turmoil of the decade really starts to creep into almost everything, and I don't enjoy most of them, including the ones you're probably thinking of. I did, however, enjoy If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium and Z.

That's nothing like a complete list of worthwhile '60s movies, but the only way to find out what you'll really like is to start watching. Good luck, Ken.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: friends ken movies

My dreams lately have been full of shootings, stabbings, and death, but I wouldn't say I was having nightmares. Any outright horror in them has been subdued, like in a classic Hollywood crime story. I generally feel tense, not afraid. Using the language of movie genres, maybe I should call them suspense-mares.

One thing they seem to have in common is that many are set or begin in Victorian houses chock-full of bedrooms with dark-stained wood wall paneling, well-worn hardwood floors, cast-iron beds, chamber pots, and ornately carved fireplaces with roaring fires. And when I say houses full of bedrooms, I mean exactly that: the only rooms in these houses are bedrooms. Even the hallways, stairwells, and closets seem to have been adapted to bedrooms.

To be clear: these houses are not scary to me. I'm not trapped; I can leave the building any time I want. And I almost always approve of the tasteful layout, furnishings, decor. I'd willingly live in any of them. (Though, as my family will attest, I have unusual taste in residential architecture. Mom has long called eclectic houses with outdated designs "Walter Houses." Finances aside, I've never been able to understand why anyone would want to live in a house that looked like anyone else's.)

According to a quick Googling of the dream symbology of bedrooms, "a bedroom in a dream symbolizes your private inner self." Okay, if you say so. But what if it's all bedrooms all the way down? Am I just an especially deep person? Or so narcissistic that I'm just a Droste effect of navel gazing to infinity?

If my brain is trying to tell me something, I wish it'd just come out and say it.

Comments (0) | Leave a Comment | Permalink | Tags: dreams family mom walter