43/2613. Up Periscope (1959)
A dull WWII movie with James Garner. For what it's worth, the dullness is not Garner's fault; there's just too much dead air masquerading as "suspense."

44/2614. L'Avventura (1960)
This is one of those movies that critics say you should see before you die, but reports say the first audiences to see it walked out on it. And they were right. Sure, it looks great and plays with some cinematic and storytelling structure concepts in unique ways, but the end result is that the audience spends two tense hours with some horrible people who know they are horrible people yet still being being horrible and resolving nothing. The ultimate lesson is don't do any of this. Not an enjoyable experience.

45/2615. Orion and the Dark (2024)
What can only be described as a Charlie Kaufman film for kids (because it is) has plenty of subversive surreality but has softened too much of Kaufman's uniquely signature metatextural navel-gazing for its younger audience. Don't get me wrong, it's not bad. It's just a lesser Kaufman work.

46/2616. Downhill Racer (1969)
Every possible sports cliche is in this action movie which is really a character study of the kind of damaged person who succeeds in the world of cutthroat sport. In hindsight, it's a very interesting counterpoint to The Candidate, which I'm sure is no coincidence as it was made three years later by the same director and star. Personally, I think The Candidate is Redford's best work (leveraging his charisma to make a point about the corrupting force of politics), but I admit that's because I prefer my satires sharp enough to draw blood. Your mileage may vary.

47/2617. T-Men (1947)
This is a crime drama procedural with noirish elements including most notably the beautiful chiaroscuro cinematography. I would argue that it's not quite true noir because the protagonist is a straight cop who walked into his noirish situation with eyes open, but that feels a bit like picking nits. Remember, kids: crime doesn't pay (but neither does being a cop).

More to come.

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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.

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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.

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Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part One: Last year the yard spigot I had installed a decade ago on the back of the house started leaking at the handle. Today, I finally got our regular plumber to come fix it. (Last year, he said he would get around to it. Last week, he said Monday. Monday, he said Tuesday. Yesterday I said now or never, and he showed up.) I could have tried to replace it myself, but I knew the connector was rusting and the copper pipe was crimped, meaning that I was just as likely to break it. Given how much work the professional had to put into it, I definitely made the right call.

Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part Two: After hearing horror stories about the size of armadillo dens, Mom decided to run off an armadillo who had recently taken up residence under our front porch. Since she knew armadillos are un-poisonable, she had me throw some mothballs under the stairs in the hopes of killing off their food supply. What I didn't think about at the time was that I also live under our front porch. Paradichlorobenzene vapor is heavier than air, so it gradually settled down into the armadillo den... and then came through the concrete block walls into my bedroom. After three days I had stood all I could stand and had to crawl under the stairs and dig out the mothballs. I don't know if the armadillo learned anything, but I sure did.

Adventures in Yard Maintenance, Part Three: Still covered in dirt from the porch, I decided I would use some of the Ortho Poison Ivy poison that my aunt had brought over and left on my patio because she was tired of it being on her patio for a year. What I did not know was that the reason the poison had been sitting on her patio for a year was because one of her handymen had broken the sprayer. When I went to use it, I spilled poison all over my hand, and got none on the ivy that needed the poison. So poison ivy wins yet another round in our decades long war.

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It's primary season in Georgia, and right now there are at least three (three!) leading Republican candidates for governor currently airing television commercials during every Jeopardy! commercial break vowing to get tough on the same issue. Not taxes. Not jobs. Not education. Not data centers or immigration or crime or polluted water or unaffordable housing or traffic congestion or gas prices. The issue they're worried about is "men" stealing trophies in women's sports.

Yes, I do live in a basement, and no, I don't have a daughter, but I still have to wonder if that's really the biggest issue facing Georgians today. Or ever, really. Outsports.com lists only five openly transgendered athletes playing for Georgia teams the past twenty years. Exactly zero of those were biological men who joined women's teams in search of fame and fortune. Zero examples would seem to make this a solution in search of a problem.

Even recognizing there were a couple of swim meets in the recent past where transgendered women stormed our borders and won (or, as in the case of Riley Gaines, placed fifth), this still doesn't seem to be a problem because A) the Georgia High School Association banned transgendered girls from playing as girls on high school teams in 2022, B) the NCAA banned the same at the college level in February 2025, and C) Georgia passed a state law ("The Riley Gaines Act") banning them from any event statewide in April 2025. It's not (yet) illegal to be transgendered in Georgia, but they better not try kicking any girls' balls.

So we ask the question: why are all these Republican governor candidates spending so much time and money decrying a vanishingly rare situation that is already triply illegal in the state they say they know enough about to run? I guess it's too much work to come up with a plan to address the ongoing homeless crisis or social media monopolies when you can just keep holding up your pitchfork and yelling "Won't somebody please think of the trans children?"

All I can say for sure is that it doesn't look like I'll be voting Republican this year. Again.

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I just spent the last three hours trying to play a video game called Disco Elysium. If you haven't done that, don't.

Mechanically, the game is part painfully dull point-and-click roleplaying game, part existentially crushing choose-your-own-adventure visual novel in which your character's health is measured by both physical and mental punishment absorbed. That description makes it sound more fun than it is. In my first attempted playthrough using the game's predefined "Thinker" archetype, my hungover protagonist, a depressed police detective, encountered the decaying corpse he'd been assigned to investigate and promptly quit the force. Game over.

In my second playthrough, I knew to avoid the body and instead questioned some witnesses. There was only one that can be interacted with: a stoned kid throwing rocks at the body. The brat belittled my detective skills, and I lost my will to participate in society. Game over. Gee, this is fun.

Deciding that the game had suckered me into playing a character with starting Morale that was too low ("Thinker" being the default option in the menu), I decided to start over with a customized character. Only, the user interface doesn't really hold your hand through this, and pressing the wrong button twice, I was suddenly starting the game again, going through the same startup dialog with the same shitty Morale as before. I have to give the game credit for making the menus as irritating as the in-game environment. That's commitment!

So I started a fourth time, this time successfully placing all of my available stat points into the two key survival attributes, Psyche and Physique. I also decided to chose only roleplaying dialog options that seemed to be delusionally optimistic. And it worked! When I got to the body, I successfully pushed through the first round of gag-reflex vomiting and was rewarded with a short quest to find some ammonia to mask the decay. But the stench was still overpowering, and I lost Morale. Calling into my precinct, I truthfully reported I was missing my badge, was ridiculed by my squad mates, and lost Morale. In between insults, I discovered I had also lost my gun and lost Morale. Pushing on with the case, I spoke to the person who reported finding the body, who was rude to me, and I committed suicide. Game over. Game deleted.

Seriously, what's the point of something like this? I only played the game because it was A) critically lauded and B) free. But I paid too much. While, yes, this game has a unique artistic vision, that's not enough to declare it a worthwhole (much less recommended) gaming experience. Who are these video game critics whose lives are so amazingly satisfying that they enjoy "playing" fatalistically depressing video games? Life is awful enough without this kind of masochistic shit in it.

Am I ranting because I'm angry? Damn right, I am. If nothing else, I should praise Disco Elysium for making my blood boil at the time I wasted on it, because that red-hot rage against the dying of the light is life-affirming in ways that Disco Elysium is very much not. It needs psychiatric help and deserves my pity, but narcissistic emotional terrorist that it is, it has gone out of its way to make me hate it. I hope it goes and fucks itself.

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Yeah, I read the reviews, which is a significant part of why I waited so long to see it. Now that I have, let's talk about

27/2597. Babylon (2022)

I adore writer/director Damien Chazelle's La La Land. I like old movies. In fact, I probably prefer them. I'm familiar enough with their work to recognize the pastiches of Clara Bow and John Gilbert and Ana May Wong. I've read Hollywood Babylon and Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks. This movie is aimed squarely at people like me. And I didn't care for it.

The narrative, scattered as it is, is at its core the same story as The Artist or, even more explicitly, Singing in the Rain. But it actually has more in common with Citizen Kane, by which I mean Chazelle has reworked the legends of sordid Hollywood stories into a stylish (and mean-spirited) fictional history morality play. And like the epics of yesteryear, it's also too long, containing too many shots that seem to be in there just because someone didn't want to admit to wasting the money they spent filming them. Here you really feel the length because of how uncomfortable it is to spend time with any of the scenarios or characters. Brad Pitt and Margot Robbie are the stars, but the minority characters are more engaging, if only because the racist system pushes them out before it can grind them down.

To be clear, Babylon is impressively well made (even if by its nature it can't help but feel derivative), but its core problem is that it was made for an audience of one. It feels as if Chazelle is exploring for himself whether the Hollywood Magic is a Faustian bargain, and his ultimate answer, appropriate for someone the film medium has already made a star, is an unsatisfying "yes and no." If anything, the real lesson here is that just as you can't make a war film without glorifying war, you can't criticize Old Hollywood by repeating all its worst excesses.

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7/2577. More Than a Secretary (1936)
I keep confusing this movie with Skyscraper Souls, which was the last movie I watched in 2025, probably because both are about a professional woman who falls for a cad. In this one, Jean Arthur gets her man, but he's really not worth it, Jean.

8/2578. Cinema Paradiso (1988)
A very well told story about the early life of a man who falls in love with cinema itself. I read there's a director's cut that adds a bunch of story about the man's later life, but that could only possibly make this worse. Sometimes less really is more.

9/2579. Only Angels Have Wings (1939)
Jean Arthur again (TCM's Star of the Month), here with Cary Grant in an adventure tale about the early days of flight. Very entertaining.

10/2580. The Love Light (1921)
Less entertaining. It's kind of a silent version of The English Patient if that movie had been duller and taken place in the shadow of a light house. The last reel, with its a kidnapping and shipwreck, may have been necessary for a "happy" ending, but as much as I dislike The English Patient, it certainly knows that some endings shouldn't be happy.

12/2582. The Devil and Miss Jones (1941)
Not the one from the Golden Age of Porn. That's The Devil in Miss Jones. This one is a thoroughly delightful romantic comedy (starring Jean Arthur again) that is definitely worth watching. But be very careful when you're googling it at work.

More to come.

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My favorite barbeque joint is celebrating 100 years in business, so I painted them a birthday card:

That logo was designed by David Boyd and has been part of their street sign since at least 1992 when I worked my first ever summer job there as a curb hop, a position they have since eliminated, maybe because they had a hard time finding qualified curb hops. In my case, I just wrote whatever the customer said on my pad and handed it to the employee behind the register who re-wrote the order for the kitchen. Not that I didn't try; I think they just didn't trust me to take the orders correctly, and in all honesty, they were probably right. In addition to being my first job, it was the first job I was fired from.

(Don't feel bad for me. As lowest man on the totem pole, it was also my job to clean the barbeque pit every night. Being fired from shoveling grease out of an oven was an undisguised blessing. And I've since been fired from many jobs, so it would prove to be good training.)

Here's to one hundred more!

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Flower

I first heard of Phair in 1993 in the Mazda Miata with Mom during the afternoon rush hour commute between Emory University and Newnan when Phair's debut Exile in Guyville album was reviewed on NPR.

Thanks to the Internet, I can tell you that day must have been Tuesday, July 20,¹ when Ken Tucker reviewed Exile in Guyville, released in June 1993, for Terry Gross's Fresh Air. That was the summer before my freshman year at Emory, so what was I doing in the car? Was I working part-time in the Pediatric Infectious Diseases office with Mom before my work-study position started in August, or was I just killing time driving the convertible around downtown Atlanta while Mom was working? Could have been either.)

The Internet also makes it possible for me to transcribe Tucker's praise for this song in particular:

There's a thin quality to Exile in Guyville. It ends up making you think that Liz Phair is something of a dabbler, that If this rock thing doesn't work out, she'll take up painting or maybe just use her trust fund to live in Paris for a while. But there's a core of about four or five songs here that are really first rate, and one in particular, called "Flower," that I can't play on the radio but which is as fine and bold a song as I've heard about sexual obsession.

Obviously, I had to have any album with that kind of recommendation. I probably bought the cassette at the Tower Records behind Lennox Mall, and I recall playing it quite a bit during the long commutes between Atlanta and Newnan. Listening to Phair always made me feel rebellious and cool, as good rock music should. "I'll take you home and make you like it," indeed.

Thanks, Internet!

¹ The Internet tells me July 20, 1993², was the same day that the press box caught on fire at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium, which 90s Atlanta Braves fans will recall as the day that Fred "Crime Dog" McGriff made his debut for the team, in his third at-bat hitting a home run to drive in Ron Gant to tie the game at 5-5 in the 6th inning. The fire didn't start until 6, so I think we found out about the fire after we got home. The fire delayed the game start until after 9; I might have watched it, but I don't have any memory of that.

² You know what else happened on July 20, 1993? Some guy named Vince Foster committed suicide. And no one ever uttered his name again.

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