Someday I wanna make a list of celebrities who’ve “admitted” to loving Doctor Who. The Brits on the list wouldn’t be quite as impressive, because in a lot of ways, they’re a given. Last week I met Joel McHale of E’s The Soup and I don’t recall how Who came up, but he immediately confessed rabid adoration for the show – especially the classic series (weird, huh?). He gave me permission to spread it out amongst the world, so that’s what I’m doing. A quick look at Joel’s IMDB page reveals that he’s a mere 6 days younger than me. Maybe we went through the same teenage Who experiences? I wonder if some asshole on the school bus ever grabbed his novelization of "The Five Doctors" and waved it around, threatening to throw it out the window (as high school jock dickheads like to do)? This has nothing to do with "Daleks in Manhattan" -- but the recap needs some padding since it's Part One of Two, and it seemed a more interesting intro than rehashing the finer details of those metallic bastards from Skaro.
Meet the Adrian Monk bobblehead.
“Maupin denies that this is the seventh volume of his beloved Tales of the City, but – happily – that’s exactly what it is…” -- Publisher’s Weekly
Maupin has stated that the numerous Tales characters are various sides of himself, yet Michael's clearly the closest to the real man. While reading the latest installment, I gradually found it impossible to separate Michael from Maupin (much like Gabriel Noone in The Night Listener). The two have fused into one, and, like a closeted gay man finally coming out, it’s refreshing to see Armistead embracing his fictitious alter ego as the straightest route to saying what’s got to be said. An aspect of Maupin’s writing that’s always been appealing is that his stories don’t depend on gay culture, but rather truthfully showcase it as part of the bigger world. This sounds so politically incorrect, but the new book is really gay for the first 3 or 4 chapters. It was almost off-putting until I just said to myself, “Hey dickhead -- Michael’s telling this story. He’s [now] a 55-year old homosexual. What other point of view should he have?” (And it was right around this point that Brian Hawkins, my favorite Tales resident, showed up.)
Michael’s seen it all. He’s fictionally been witness and party to every change and movement in gay culture since he was created in 1974. I once lovingly labelled Soap's Jodie Dallas "the worst homosexual ever created"; if that's so, Michael's the greatest. (Odd that the two were "born" only a few years apart.) The title Michael Tolliver Lives seems awkward, yet via Maupin's prose it becomes ideal. As characters go, Michael’s been in limbo since 1987, so yeah, he fucking lives once again -- sorta like Superman without the cape and tights. If I made a list of my gay friends, Michael would be the only person on it that doesn’t really exist – we're that close.
So what’s the book about? Love, family, honesty, forgiveness and just being there for people. In addition to those we already know, Maupin unveils a whole new set of characters that will undoubtedly resurface in his next book. One young lady is a hugely popular sex blogger; another individual seems ideally suited to carry the torch of Mrs. Madrigal should something ever happen to her (perish the thought, but she is 83 at this point). Michael's ultra-right wing Christian brother Irwin and his Jesus-freak wife Lenore are two standouts. Everything there is to dislike about Bible-thumpers can be found in the pair, but Maupin's a classy enough guy to give them sympathetic sides as well. They've got their beliefs, but Michael is family and a constant reminder that the world is a more complex tapestry than their views should allow. I was set to loathe these people, but Maupin, devil that he is, made me love them for their faults.
Reading Maupin is an effortless endeavor -- the guy just knows how to economically and entertainingly tell a story. Lives is a swift read that alternates between raunchy and sweet. It presents wry commentary, laugh-out loud observations and touching familial friction (Michael’s visit with his dying mother brought me to tears). There’s even his trademark Hitchcockian twist as the book nears the finish line when a buried secret rears its ugly head. Although not as “big” as say, Rev. Jim Jones’ appearance in Further Tales, it’s still pretty big as far as the novel’s concerned. When asked, “What’s next?” in a recent interview the writer fessed up: “Another book about the Tales characters. I've lived in that world for 30 years, even when I was writing non-Tales books. Whatever I have to offer seems to come through those characters, and I see no reason to abandon them.”
New Maupin is always a reason for celebration. Maybe I sound like I’ve been a fan since 1974; someone who’s accompanied him on this rewarding journey since the beginning…but that would require me to have been a very progressive 3-year old. Like many, I discovered his work back in ’94, through the PBS miniseries adaptation of the first Tales of the City book, and I’ve been a devotee ever since. While he can hardly be described as prolific (9 books over 30+ years), Armistead’s like the gay Kubrick of narrative fiction: You might not get much, but what you do get is always rich and special. What would Michael Tolliver Lives be like as an introduction to the Tales universe -- to read this text first and then go back and discover the finer details of these characters' pasts? You know -- in a Darth Vadery/Anakin Skywalkery sorta way. If Armistead were here right now, I’d ask him to craft the perfect gay lightsaber joke as an ending to the piece. I'd repay him by suggesting that he sell T-Shirts on his website proclaiming "There is no fifth destination". After reading the book, you'll want one.
Since I'm lousy at writing about music, but passable in my movie-speak, I'll present the band Not Drowning, Waving through the Russell Crowe/Hugo Weaving-starring and Jocelyn Moorhouse-directed movie, Proof (no relation to the play or Hopkins/Paltrow movie of the same name).
In “The End of the World” Russell T Davies had the Doctor take Rose to the year 5 Billion to see the Earth explode. The following year, he brought the pair to “New Earth” in the year 5 Billion & 23. Humanity had moved onward and upward, further out amongst the stars. With “Gridlock” he completes a trilogy by returning the Doctor to New Earth once again -- only another 30 years have passed…and this time the future’s so dark, you gotta change lanes.
The Doctor crossing paths with William Shakespeare is such an obvious gimmick, it seems an improbability that it’s never been portrayed onscreen before now. “The Shakespeare Code” seeks to rectify the omission by introducing wordsmith to John Smith and the adventure, written by Gareth Roberts, casts a potent spell and I dare say even old Bill himself would be both bemused and bewitched by the results.
become the most recognizable Bond girl. And then there’s Connery – James Bond fully formed with his postmortem sarcasm, particular tastes and cold animal sex drive in full gear. As much as I enjoyed watching Daniel Craig reboot the character and start the developmental process from getting his double 0, honing his taste for inebriants, learning the place of love in the workplace, etc…I couldn’t help but think that as the end credits for Casino Royale rolled, the Bond character was ready to emerge again as the final product that is Sean Connery in Dr. No. And yet, with so much of the formula and style in place, the film manages to be exotic and thrilling to anyone flirting with becoming a Bond aficionado. It was clear that producers Broccoli and Saltzman wanted to make a series of pictures and it’s as if their first experiment was such a home-run that almost everything stuck. The only thing that wasn’t there was the budget, but with such expert filmmaking, you never miss it. And gadgets would come later.
Tuneage – The Dr. No soundtrack is somewhat of an anomaly, based primarily on Monty Norman’s theme and the work of the hottest Jamaican band at the time, Byron Lee & the Dragoneers. John Barry was involved, too, but he was un-credited. It is a livelier soundtrack, with more pop sounds than orchestral sounds, included catchy Carribean dance tunes such as “Jump Up,” and the reoccurring “Underneath the Mango Tree.” The highlight, though, is Norman’s James Bond theme, which has enjoyed a multitude of variants over the last forty-five years, but is most indelibly rendered in Dr. No.
launched directly into the inspired graphic design credits of Maurice Binder. It is his crudest effort in the series, but one that is nevertheless striking with its bold dots and vibrantly colored dancing silhouettes. (I had a crush on the one with tassels on her dress. The first one, not the second). They are simple images, but stylistically potent. There are three segments to the credit sequence: the dots and cubes digitally dancing to Monty Norman’s classic theme, then young people dancing to Caribbean music and finally, the blackened silhouettes of three old Jamaicans with walking canes bouncing to a calypso version of “Three Blind Mice.” The lyrics are brutal, much like the film that lies ahead.
would go on to do a variety of variations around that circle in the ceiling in countless Bond films. He also likes staircases without hand rails (it’s about comfort, not safety), the combination of natural rock with steel and open fire pits in lavish living areas below the earth’s surface. All present in Dr. No. The villain’s lair contains all the combinations of classical and modern that defines the tastes of Bond villains: copper doors and elevators, wood floors, Victorian and contemporary furnishings, carefully mixed. The villain doctor’s criminal bona-fides are confirmed with the careful placement of a recently stolen Goya portrait of the Duke of Wellington.
Zee Villain –Even without the kicking pad, Dr. No (Joseph Wiseman) would still be the total embodiment of the Bond villain. He’s a recluse with huge ambition. While he is cold and diabolical, he is also refined, and when he meets a worthy adversary, such as Bond, he is civilized enough to treat him and his lady to a nice meal. I’ve never heard of a Bond villain that did not offer Bond a drink. No self-respecting SPECTRE agent goes through life without knowing the libation habits of 007 – so when Bond finally meets the evil villain, Dr. No already has Bond’s drink prepared.
Like a good villain, Dr. No is always calm and collected. He never shares in the blame when something goes wrong, as when Bond luckily escapes an assassin’s bullet. The man in charge of the mission was the nervous Professor Dent, an agent of Dr. No’s who no doubt had a hand in hiring the killers to kill Strangways as well. When Dr. No asks the professor why Bond is still alive, Dent explains: “Our attempts failed.”
“You don’t miss a thing,” Bond replies. And he’s right. It’s impossible to look at Sylvia Trench and not take note of the sex appeal that emanates from her like a fine perfume animated by Tex Avery. If the average Bond girl sends a man’s eyes about a foot away from his socket, then Eunice Gayson sends them 10 foot away with a good dozen smaller tracer eyeballs in between.
But the sexy girls don’t stop there. The lovely Marguerite LeWars (former Miss Jamaica) tries twice to snag Bond’s picture for Dr. No before getting her arm twisted and being sent away. Granted, she’s always in duress and therefore has little opportunity to turn on the sex appeal, but she does get to pout like a hellcat, and act like one, too, when she claws Quarrel’s right cheek with a broken light-bulb. The producers managed to get a lot of talent from the local resources of Jamaica, and LeWars was no exception, as she was found working as a flight attendant for Pan Am.
Finally, there is Ursula Andress as Honey Ryder emerging from the surf (with a wounded hind leg according to the commentary track to the film, though you’d never know it). It is a scene that is the most closely identified to the idea of the Bond girl. Her character is remarkably close to Ian Fleming’s Honey Ryder – tough, smart and goddess-like in beauty, but wholly uneducated and a sort of child of nature. Fleming would create several female characters with these types of traits, but Andress comes closest to putting that on film. Fleming was so smitten with Andress during the shooting of the film that he gave her a cameo spot in the ski-lodge of the novel On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, written in 1963, directly after the film. Although Andress did not get the chance to kick some butt, as Ryder did in the novel, she certainly manages to come across as self-reliant in the extreme. Her planned execution in the novel, as laid out by Dr. No, is to be bound to the ground as the tide changes so that black crabs will crawl over her and eat her flesh. The plan comes to naught because Ryder knows the crabs are harmless if she doesn’t resist – another failure that Dr. No would have blamed on others, had he lived to do so. In the film Terrence Young had intended a similar scene, but when the flesh eating crabs arrived to the set frozen and half dead, they had to resort to a simple flooding effect. One can only imagine that this impromptu change was for the best.
Bond, James Bond - The search for an actor to play Bond led Broccoli and Saltzman to consider a number of choices, including Cary Grant (Broccoli decided against him because he wanted an actor that would become part of the series and Grant would have likely been a one time deal) as well as Roger Moore, who was tied up at the time with The Saint. Sean Connery was an up and comer, having worked with Terence Young in Action of the Tiger (1957). Broccoli was impressed with him in Disney’s Darby O’Gill (1959) and he landed the part. It is hard to think of an actor, including Moore, who could have more firmly established the character as quickly and fully as Connery did. Sean Connery in 1962 was, quite simply, a perfect specimen of a man – athletic as hell (he was a Mr. Universe) and equally refined. Although his performance comes across as effortless onscreen, Connery went through an intense Bond indoctrination under the tutelage of director Terence Young. From the style of Bond’s suit to all the particulars of his taste, Connery was a rough cut stone that Young chiseled into the pure dazzling diamond. Bond’s panache is an extension of Young’s panache, something that would endure beyond Dr. No and even beyond Connery. From the very beginning of the series, Sean Connery is a perfect mixture of roughness and sophistication, brute and gentleman. He is at his most ruthless in Dr. No, particularly when he shoots a man in cold blood. Bond explains to the soon-to-be-dead Professor Dent (Anthony Dawson) after the hapless professor has emptied his revolver into the pillow likeness of 007: “That’s a Smith and Wesson and you’ve had your six,” and then pumps three silent slugs into the disarmed doctor. There’s no doubt that Bond is the hero and that his foes are the villains, but rarely does an audience see a hero employing his license to kill in as nonchalant and calculating a way as Connery in Dr. No. In future films, he would make a habit of using femme fatales as body armor, but the cold caste is set in Dr. No. with his murder of Professor Dent.
His humor, too, must have been something new to audiences. This particular hallmark of Bond’s character was the result of impromptu changes by Connery and Young. When he pulls up to Government House with the imposter chauffeur dead in the back seat, he quips to the entrance guard, “Make sure he doesn’t get away,” and hands the guard the keys, walking calmly into Government House without further explanation. Perhaps his death jokes are a subconscious way of dealing with the guilty pain his license to kill forces him to endure. If so, then it apparently turns his skin into a veritable shield of Teflon where guilt slides off of him faster than a fried egg. I think he just likes a good joke. It should be noted that as quippy as he got, Connery never quite reached the sarcastic levels of Roger Moore, but his comments, especially in Dr. No, do tend to be darker.
Connery’s Bond is not only graceful, brutish and athletic, but he’s a scrapper, too. When he’s completely at the mercy of Dr. No, eating his fine cuisine, he still manages to do everything in his cordial way to needle the villain. When Bond picks up a bottle to use as a weapon, the doctor points out that it is a Dom Perignon ’55 and, thus, a pity to waste, in which Bond replies (setting the bottle down): “I prefer the ‘53, myself.” He asks, off-handedly, to his threatening host whether the “toppling of American missiles really compensates for having no hands?” Even though he’s powerless, Bond continually looks for that one thing that might jolt the doctor or change the circumstances. When the doctor boasts about the greatest minds that make up SPECTRE, Bond corrects him by interjecting “criminal brains.” Of course, the doctor has his reply: “The criminal brain is always superior, it has to be.”
The Novel – Although the first film in the series, Dr. No was the sixth novel. It brought up the tail end of Flemings early stories (the collection of short stories in For Your Eyes Only being the center point in the series). The film is more or less faithful to the novel with a few notable exceptions. The character of Miss Taro is crooked in the book, but even more crooked in the film. Felix Leiter was a return character in the novel, with a significant handicap he obtained in the second novel, Live and Let Die. The film does not mention the Audubon Society, which, in the novel, is responsible for shedding light on Dr. No’s activities as well as affording Bond’s superior, M, with a chance to share his worldview. Fleming spends a chapter on Bond, Quarrel and Ryder trekking through the mangroves in thrilling detail. The tarantula in the film is a centepede in the book, and it drinks the sweat off Bond's forhead (or so he senses). Also, Bond’s passage through the pipes of Dr. No’s fortress is part of the doctor’s obstacle course of death – planned out by the doctor with a finale confrontation with a giant squid. Finally (and if you plan on reading the book beware of the spoiler that follows), Dr. No meets his fate at the business end of a pile of guano. Oh yeah, and the dragon serves as an escape vehicle for Bond and Ryder. Virtually all of the deviations from the novel were wise moves on the part of the filmmakers.
“The Runaway Bride” is the second Christmas special of the new Doctor Who and it packs a special punch. It’s an action spectacle about yet another alien invasion of Earth, framed by a secondary storyline about loss and living. And, as is often the case with Doctor Who, it’s that secondary story that separates it from the rest. Picking up immediately where “Doomsday” left off, the Doctor (David Tennant) is baffled by the Bride’s (Catherine Tate) sudden appearance in the TARDIS. Turns out her name is Donna and she’s obnoxious, rude and loud – the antithesis of Rose Tyler.
Assuming the fight was based on who was the most entertaining, if the lovely Ms. Bextor were to duke it out with the Sisters, I’ve no idea who’d win.
I always feel so out of the loop when it comes to good tunes, but thanks to Russell T Davies’ bitchin’ taste in pop music I’m now familiar with the Scissor Sisters, a band who pulls influence from so many areas they’ll leave your heading spinning and ears bleeding (but pleasantly so). The Season Three finale of Doctor Who was unleashed on the BBC this past weekend and the Sisters tune “I Can’t Decide” played a major role in the proceedings. Turns out the Scissor Sisters are from the States and have had two albums, but it seems their music is just a wee bit more popular across the pond. Again, America has no taste. Long live the Queen.
Speaking of Doctor Who, Season Three kicks off this Friday night, July 6th, on the SciFi Channel here in the States with last year’s Christmas special, “The Runaway Bride”. You remember the Bride, don’t you? She appeared in the TARDIS at the end of “Doomsday” after the Doctor (David Tennant) said a tearful goodbye to the lovely Rose Tyler? Find out who the Bride is and what she’s doing in the Doctor’s supposedly impenetrable time/space machine. The 90-minute (with loads of commercials) installment will be immediately followed by S3’s first proper episode, “Smith and Jones”, which introduces Miss Martha Jones (Freema Agyeman), the Doctor’s new companion...who’s something of a doctor herself.
My first impression of Farscape is forever burned into the ol’ gray matter. I was at a friend’s abode and the Sci-Fi Channel was on in the background. Dominar Rygel the XVI -- a mainstay of the series, as well as a creation of Jim Henson’s Creature Shop -- filled the screen. Within seconds a judgment was made: “This looks fuckin’ stupid.”
There are many reasons to recommend Black Snake Moan, but chief among them is the sheer amount of time Christina Ricci spends either naked or in some state of near undress. A lot of people are talking about this, but not in the right way. They want you to know that the movie’s deeper and better than it looks. Well that may well be, but I want you to know how much of Ricci’s exposed flesh is on display in this thing before any of that other stuff. Tons!!
Yes, Black Snake Moan is something of a flesh fest and I don’t know what these people are talking about when they say it was poorly advertised and so forth. Are you kidding me!?!? It was advertised perfectly. If anything, I’d assumed the ad campaign was all a big tease, and the film would likely have one or two quick boobie shots. Not so! There's enough tit and ass on display here that you'll probably fracture your wrist with the number of times you'll be reaching for your remote control and the many functions it offers to enhance this film. And the spunk target works on Christina, oh yes it does. There is still truth in advertising and it is called Black Snake Moan.
See this girl Ricci plays, Rae, is exactly the kind of troubled white trash I would’ve fallen for in my stupid youth, so it wasn’t hard for me to identify with Justin Timberlake (and that pretty much goes right at the top of the list of things I never thought I’d say), who as her beau Ronnie is hopelessly in love with Rae, but gets massive panic attacks every time he picks up a gun. Into their already queasy relationship stumbles bluesman Samuel L. Jackson, who rocks just as hard as he does in every film he’s ever been in (except maybe National Lampoon’s Loaded Weapon 1, in which he failed to rock at all). Sam’s Lazarus is quite simply having none of Rae’s crazy bullshit (which we eventually discover isn’t really bullshit), so he chains her to his radiator in the hopes of curing her of her wicked ways. Of course you don’t really want this to happen, but that may be part of the genius of the film.
Writer/Director Craig Brewer is smart. He seduces you with the nakedness of Ricci for the film’s first half and then shifts gears and forces you care about the movie and its characters to the point that the nudity is no longer necessary (although this doesn’t stop him from placing her into a pretty hot bump and grind dance scene in the film’s third act). Black Snake Moan is the celluloid equivalent of humidity and heat. Every frame of it makes you feel like you’re living in the Deep South, where the people can be as benevolent as they are fucked up. There are some real issues that come into play and lest you think I’m recommending some piece of exploitative trash, you are wrong.
Is there an installment of the James Bond series with a less flattering reputation than 1979’s Moonraker? Frequently labeled the worst of the worst, it’s time for another look at the popcorn bonanza that launched Bond into outer space and Roger Moore into camp infamy.
Bond navigates his way sans ‘chute towards Evil Pilot. The pair scuffle for considerably longer this time, in mid-air, as Bond relentlessly fights to remove Evil Pilot’s parachute. (Does the bizarre shot of Bond’s nose nestled in Evil Pilot’s crotch tell us more about James than we ever wanted to know?) This entire fight is a beauty to behold and the jewel in the Bond stunt crown.
Once Bond snags the chute, Evil Pilot trails away into the atmosphere to meet his maker (clenching his fists at 007 all the way), Round Two begins. Jaws shows up behind James and attempts to sink his tinfoil teeth into Bond's leg, but not before James activates his chute, pulling him to safety. Jaws discovers his chute doesn’t work and crashes to safety through a circus tent on the ground below. (Despite the fact she was seen being given a parachute, we never really find out what happened to the girl.)
While this skydiving sequence has a few problems (i.e. the obvious stuntmen and the goggles Bond is magically wearing), the sheer thrill and spectacle make up for any minor shortcomings. It’s the kind of stuff that cemented Moore’s era as its own.
Tuneage and Credits Sequence: Maurice Binder’s work on the various ‘70s Moore movies is collectively my favorite. He was getting away with showcasing loads of sexy, silhouetted flesh – often dancing with R-rated imagery - and Moonraker is no different (though it does seem a mild attempt to duplicate the perfection of The Spy Who Loved Me’s credits). There’s a bit of dated animation in the mix, but the plethora of bouncing babes makes up for it.
Given the film’s sci-fi premise, the title tune feels too retro due to the recognizable presence of Shirley Bassey’s vocals. Her style is much more at home with her two Connery numbers and this feels like a case of “trying to go home”. 
While Drax the man may be a minus for Moonraker, his scheme – which seems inspired by one too many viewings of 2001 and the maddening thinking that might occur from the inability to figure it all out -- is a big plus. Drax is Hitler without the appreciation for art & history: Wipe out the flawed human race and start over in space. It’s through this comic book conceit that Moonraker scales memorable heights, both thematically and literally.
Bond, James Bond: One of the most refreshing aspects of Roger Moore’s commentary tracks on the Ultimate Edition DVDs is his self-deprecating approach. He never stands on ceremony and doesn’t pretend to be some great actor. Moonraker is the outing in which Moore has the least to do from a character standpoint, and James spends the movie hopping from one outlandish situation to the next. (At one point he even ends up improbably disguised as Eastwood’s Man With No Name with the theme from The Magnificent Seven offering accompaniment.)
It isn’t hard to see why Moonraker is so often ridiculed; if the previous Moore movies had already hammered in a few nails, this one sealed the coffin on Connery’s golden age. By the time it reaches its finale, you’ve either submitted to its charms or lost all interest. The key to “getting” the movie is the same as appreciating any comic book -- basking in the pictures…and Moonraker overflows with sumptuous imagery. If one were deprived of the film's dialogue & plot mechanics and only listened to its score and wallowed in the photography, effects and locations, one might wonder exactly why so much derision surrounds the piece.
Sir Frederick Gray: “My God, what's Bond doing?”
