Joe's personal film festival

I was tagged by Kat Candler who was tagged by Lazy Eye Theatre on the following fun assignment: the 12 Movie Meme. Program a weeks worth of films at a local theater in your town.

Here are the rules:
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1) Choose 12 Films to be featured. They could be random selections or part of a greater theme. Whatever you want.
2) Explain why you chose the films.
3) Link back to Lazy Eye Theatre so I can have hundreds of links and I can take those links and spread them all out on the bed and then roll around in them.
4) The people selected then have to turn around and select 5 more people.


Monday: Aussie teen night

I have a thing about high school movies, and two of the best are by John Dungan:

The Year My Voice Broke (1987). The first part of what was said to be a coming-of-age trilogy starring Noah Taylor. The third part was never made.



Flirting (1991) Duigan’s followup has a young and very hot Nicole Kidman as the bitchy girl at an isolated boarding school.


Neither of these films has been released on DVD, but apparently something is in the works.

Tuesday: Not gangster night

When I was 18 I got seriously addicted to gangster movies, which are really, really out of vogue now. You all need more vintage gangsta in your diet. Here are a few on the edges of the genre that you’ve probably never seen that I wish Austin’s Paramount Theatre would program one summer.

Brother Orchid (1940) is a gangster film for people who don’t like gangster films. It’s stars Edward G. Robinson, my favorite gangster next to Bogart, as a mug who hides out in a monestary. Yes, it’s a sweet little film, and the only one featuring both Robinson and Bogart where neither is killed!




They Drive By Night ( 1940) Humphrey Bogart and George Raft are long-haul truckers aiming to succeed in a crooked business. Tragedy and murder ensues. And it has Ida Lupino in it!



Wednesday: American teen night

Like I said, I love the teen film, and these two particularly do it for me.

The Last American Virgin (1982) is an odd remake of Boaz Davidson’s autobiographical Lemon Popsicle about growing up in Israel. Only he moves it to California and adds a great New Wave soundtrack. What’s even more interesting is the sharp turn the film takes. A goofy comedy at the beginning, it turns deadly serious and the ending is earned but surprising.




Foxes (1980). Jody Foster and Cherie Currie (of the all-girl band The Runaways) star in this very realistic film of growing up amid drugs, sex and all the rest in an era that was a whole lot more permissive than today. Totally high Currie staggering down the middle of a freeway is spot on perfect.



Thursday: Peter Sellers night

Being There (1979) says more about U.S. politics than any other film. Period. It also speaks volumes about class and illusion. I like that the original story came from foreigner Jerzy Kosinski, who puts a laser beam on our screwed up values. Peter Sellers fought to do this role and then died shortly after making it.


The Party (1968) displays Sellers’ comedic genius. The film is said to have had no more than an outline for a script. Sellers fills in the blanks with incredible physical comedy. The target of humor this time is the movie industry itself at a big party that quickly turns to chaos.



Friday: Bud Cort night

The perfect odd bug of a boy, Bud Cort made two films that are gems.

Harold and Maude (1971) is a sweet film about death. So what if the filmmakers chickened out on an actual love scene (they found the biggest damn bed I've ever seen and put them at opposite ends of it!) between a young man and an old woman? It's funny, quirky and stands the test of time.



Brewster McCloud (1970) features Cort flying around the Astrodome wearing giant wings. It's directed by Robert Altman, weirdly moody and thoroughly fascinating.



Saturday: Two from Texas

Sure, you know the legendary Texas films like Giant and The Last Picture Show, but these are odd little films that you may have missed.

The Hot Spot (1990) is one of the underrated and forgetten Texas-shot films. Directed by Dennis Hopper, it's a modern noir with a very interesting storyline and a very young Jennifer Connelly exposing her assets. Ah, the intrigue of used car lots. And it was filmed down the road from me in Taylor!



Roadie (1980). It's not a masterpiece, but Meatloaf stars as a stumbling, bumbling Roadie and we Roy Orbison singing "The Eyes of Texas," Blondie singing "Ring of Fire," plus Austin new wave legends Standing Waves and swinging Asleep at the Wheel just singing. The most truly Austin of any film ever. Was cowritten by Big Boy Medlin and Michael Ventura.



OK, now to pass on the favor, I tag Ms. Pierson, Mr. Egerton, Ms. Schoolfield, Ms. Marsh and Mr. Kent.

How to survive a high school reunion

Joe at 15 in his KOKE-FM Super Roper Radio T-shirt.

I'm going to my high school reunion this weekend, so I thought it was time to pull this moldy essay out. I wrote it TEN years ago when I was doing a lot of goofy essays for the Austin American-Statesman's XL tabloid. This is the only one my editor ever turned down. Seriously. She hated it.

Enjoy.--Joe



Caught in the high school reunion shadows

by Joe O'Connell


I missed my Austin High School reunion. Again. They forgot to invite me. Again.

I know what you're saying: you should have been proactive. After all, these are people whom, for the most part, you haven't spoken to in years. They're surely scattered around the nation by now. Get on the phone, make calls. Do something.

Well, I watched the school district's cable television channel diligently for weeks and spotted notices about reunions at every local school except mine. I finally broke down and called the high school. The receptionist wasn't encouraging. "I have a contact number, but I don't really know if it's any good…" I called the number Saturday afternoon and left a message, then went out shopping with my model-thin wife. We returned to a blinking answering machine light.

"Yes, there is a reunion," the message began. Good news for me! "But it was this weekend. There is one event left. It starts in an hour…"

One hour to prepare to confront 20-year-old psychological baggage with deep roots in dodgeball and disco? No thanks. But if I had mustered the courage, I'm certain it would have gone something like this:

Enter stage left with my blonde and very intelligent wife on my arm. Donna Summer is singing in the background about "hot stuff." A card table is visible. In front of it filling out name tags are a perky woman in a cheerleader outfit and a large, bald guy in Dockers.

"Welcome!" the woman squeals and shakes her tightly coiled hair, its patch of gray shining. "And you are?"

"Joe," I say. "I sat behind you in home room for four years."

"Doesn't ring a bell…"

"Sure, you remember him," the bald man chimes in and offers me a firm handshake. "Joe Dingleberry! It's me, Fred "Nutty" Brown! How the heck you doing, Joe? Hardly recognized you out of the football uniform. Go Maroons! Fight! Shoot, Candi, you remember Joe. He was the back-up punter! Transfer from Peru, right?"

"Wrong Joe," I say.

"Oh, darn," he says and slaps his bald head. "That's right. Dingleberry died in that grizzly kicking tee accident. You're Joe Buck!

"That's the male prostitute in Midnight Cowboy."

"Give us a teensy hint," the woman says in baby talk and applies another coat of lipstick.

"Well, I dated your younger sister for two years. Until the pregnancy and her subsequent conversion to Zoroastrianism. And I spent junior year sleeping on a cot at the foot of Fred's bed after my parent's house mysteriously burned to the ground."

"Maybe you could just spell that last name," she asked.

Police have a term for people who, if they vanished overnight, would never be missed. They're called Shadow People. When it comes to high school and reunions, I can relate.

My senior yearbook contains not one picture of me, not one bit of proof that I did indeed exist. I forgot to bring a coat and tie for picture day and blew it off, figuring there'd certainly be a day for retakes. Nope.

I was involved in a smattering of minor organizations, but somehow missed getting in their yearbook photos as well. My main high-school honor was being the first person ever kicked out of In-School Suspension for liking it too much ("Next time we'll kick you out of school!"), but that didn't rate the yearbook either.

"Relax," my very young and extremely attractive wife said as I whined about missing the reunion. "This way you're just in a bad mood for a day. If you went, you'd have been in a funk for weeks."

Ask anyone; high school scars people for life. You are required to move like cattle en masse at the ting of a bell, life is a series of deadlines and tests, and 95 percent of the student body KNOW they aren't cool. Fortunately, of the remaining five percent, four percent peak at graduation and can expect 60-70 years of tedium mixed with occasional bouts of fear and agony. The other one percent go into real estate and nude modeling.

Who hasn't had that high school dream? You're naked and late for a test and your mother is waiting for you in a vat of chocolate pudding… Uh, wait, wrong dream. Erase that.

I recently met a woman in her 50s who told me of sneaking into her old high school at night. When she got to the door of her former algebra classroom, she froze up in terror and had to be dragged away mumbling something about logarithms. Her 75-year-old mother grounded her for a week.

At least her mom recognized her. My Pulitzer- and Nobel-prize winning wife was driving and I was in the passenger seat admiring her creative charms the other day. When we stopped for a traffic light, an old high school chum pulled up in the car next to us. He motioned to me to roll down the window.

"Got the time?" he asked.

"Sure, it's 1:30 p.m.," I said. "How the hell you doing?"

He looked at me quizzically and drove off without another word.

"But," my always charming and funny wife said, "people only go to high school reunions for two reasons anyway: to show up the "cool" people by wearing a skin-tight leather and lighting cigars with $100 bills, or to pal around with old buddies and relive the memories. Why bother if they don't remember you anyway?"

Good point. The truth is I did once dream of attending my reunion and bowling them over with my success as a best-selling writer, but fellow Austin High grad (who I might add is much, much older than me) Kinky Friedman beat me too it. And now that doesn't seem so important. I'd rather chat with other would-be Shadow People. A few come to mind:

--Alan, the short, afro-headed, white guy who let me cheat off his test in chemistry class. It took me this long to realize he had one of the best senses of humor around.

--The guy in In-School Suspension who described stabbing someone as like sticking a knife in wet wood. I hear he's a Republican strategist now.

--Jessica, the proud cheerleader who got married senior year and missed finals while having her first child. You were one of my favorite people even though you had this horrible blemish on your high school record (yikes! a cheerleader!).

--Noel, my favorite hippie chick from the designated smoking area. You were too smart and creative to fit in. Congratulations!

--The effeminate guy I started a fight with freshman year because I was too young, stupid, and homophobic to realize he was bigger than me. Have you met my snappily dressed wife?

And, of course, I'd greet all other Shadow People, who shall remain nameless. I have no idea who you are, but I'd be happy to pretend. In fact, I can't wait to chat with you at the next reunion. And introduce you to my wife. Did I mention she's beautiful?

###

Newspaper suicide; book "souvenirs"

I got an email from Jenny yesterday. We had been having an email exchange recently about how newspapers are committing suicide in anticipation of their own demises in the transition to an electronic world. Our discussion began when news was released of the cutting of 150 editorial department positions at the Los Angeles Times where she and her husband both work. She wrote me yesterday to tell me that her husband is among the 150.

What do I mean by suicide? Newspapers are largely run by corporations these days that are not satisfied with the small profit margin that newspapers have traditionally offered. So they cut in the only place that really saves money: staff. It's so far centered on incentives for early retirement, but also includes forced retirements and layoffs. Who goes? In most cases it's the names you'd recognize--the longterm book critic or film reviewer, the editorial cartoonist, the guy who writes about television or sports. These, of course, are the names your dwindling readership identifies with. Once you've set those big names adrift, your readers increasingly lose loyalty and feel fine dropping that subscription.

I'm an Austin native and I've worked for the Austin American-Statesman three times, first as a general copy editor for news, features and (now defunct) neighborhood sections, then as an assistant entertainment editor and last as a free-lance film industry columnist. Oh, my actual first job there was as a paperboy way back when. Recently I cut my subscription to weekends only. Why? To save money, and because I, a guy who writes for two newspapers, get more and more of my news online. I also figure to check out the newspaper at work on someone else's dime.

The Statesman is luckier than most major metropolitan newspapers. The Dallas Morning News, where I'm a free-lance film industry columnist, announced a third wave of staff reductions recently. Over at the Poynter Institute, Romenesko's regular column reads like an obituary: staff cuts, cuts cuts. The Lexington Dispatch is going so far as to chop off its own toes by deleting its entire Monday newspaper.

The Statesman's Cox chain has yet to slash into its staff, but just you wait. The signs of decay are already there. Show World, the weekly listing of television shows was dropped. I guess it was assumed only old people kept it near their rabbit-eared televisions as a guide to programming. The rest of us watch the guide channels offered by cable and satellite providers. The classified ads, once considered a reliable indicator of the state of the economy, are another goner. Craig's List stole it all. Another buggy whip for the museums. Like the phone books that keep piling up at my house untouched when the Internet is so much easier.

Why all the melancholy navel-gazing? Part of it is that email from Jenny. Another part comes from reading this article about the future of the printed word, primarily books. One person interviewed in the article suggests books will become souvenirs given out for free when authors talk. That's not too far fetched. Will all our reading soon be multimedia? Maybe so. I know I'm not ready to give up on newspapers just yet. And I'll keep on writing novels with paper and ink in mind, thank you very much. I just hope the publishers are not giving up on themselves too soon.

The Pickle vs. the Corn Popper!

Tiffany had this Corn Popper toy by Fisher Price when she was a little girl. Her parents recently pulled it out of storage for Nicholas. He is clearly born to pop.

Nicholas' day at the hospital

Today was the big day. Nicholas' call time was 8 a.m. They wheeled him back to surgery in this little wagon. It was scary to let him go, but he was back an hour later and very cranky as the anesthetic wore off. The doctor installed a sling to allow his eyebrow to pull up his droopy eyelid (ptosis for those of you finding this message by Googling).

His eye is swollen and we have to keep ointment on it because it won't completely shut for a while, but he's mainly been in great spirits all day before crashing for naps. We've been offering him multiple showings of Elmo's World from the Tivo, but he'd prefer to play. What a tough guy...

In the bottom photo in the recovery room, you can see the dinosaur-patterned splints on his arms to keep him from messing with his eyes. We take him back tomorrow morning for a brief exam with the surgeon.

Surgery in the morning

Nicholas amd Tiffany read a lot of books today, and he was full of energy as we counted down the hours to his surgery Friday morning. He shows up at 8 a.m. at Scott and White for the procedure to correct his ptosis (droopy eyelid). The procedure is supposed to take less than an hour and involves installing a sling that has his eyebrow raising the droopy lid. It's all designed to avoid any vision loss and stave off lazy eye.

They say it's a common procedure, but that doesn't keep us from getting nervous about it. Stay tuned...

A Pickle in motion

A few videos of the Pickle. This week he has learned to both kick a ball and slide down off a stool. And his walking is getting closer to a trot.