Billy Strayhorn: A Lush Life Shrouded in Shadows

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Billy Strayhorn was arguably one of the 20th century's most gifted composers. His body of work, including such titles as "Lush Life" and "Take the 'A' Train," redefined popular jazz in the forties into the fifties. As Duke Ellington's right-hand man for 29 years, he either wrote or co-wrote most of Ellington's signature hits. He was a virtuoso pianist, genius composer and phenomenal arranger. Yet, he spent his life in relative obscurity, content to live in Ellington's shadow.

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The PBS series Independent Lens examines the life of this brilliant man in "Billy Strayhorn: Lush Life." It also offers reasons as to why he chose to live away from the limelight, and looks at the lasting impact of his work.

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It's been speculated that one reason Strayhorn was content to languish in the sidelines while Ellington's career made all the press, was largely due to the fact that Strayhorn was an openly gay black man living in a hugely homophobic, white-dominated society. Director Robert Levy, through interviews and archival footage, challenges this assumption. The documentary looks at the underground nature of gay society in the thirties and forties, and through the early sixties, and concludes that they were dangerous times for homosexuals, particularly gay black men. Still, Strayhorn never shied away from his openness about his sexuality, and it may be partly for that reason that he wasn't mentioned that much in the PR machinery.

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Then again, it may be that Duke Ellington's star power was just too overwhelming.In all the 29 years he worked with Ellington, Strayhorn never had a contract. And the music business being what it was then, it wasn't that unusual for composers to go uncredited in favor of the star's drawing power. Ellington would credit Strayhorn as a "co-writer" during live interviews and performances, but those acknowledgements went largely unnoticed.

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If "Lush Life" focused only on the enigma that was Strayhorn's life, it would stand as a compelling story. But what makes it shine are the musical performances that slink seductively around the story. These are the songs of Billy Strayhorn, and it is through them that his story speaks to us most eloquently. They're understated performances, eloquently rendered by vocalists ranging from Dianne Reeves to Elvis Costello, punctuated by musicians like pianist Hank Jones, saxophonist Joe Lavano and guitarist Russell Malone. The tunes, from "Lush Life" to "Chelsea Bridge" to "Blood Count" point to various phases of Strayhorn's life, and add an extra texture to the story.

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"Billy Strayhorn: Lush Life" could not be more aptly titled. In his 51 years on the planet before falling to esophogeal cancer, Strayhorn transformed the face of jazz in his work with Duke Ellington. It's almost impossible to chart the implications of his influence on music as we know it. This documentary is a good start, though.

Rules of Engagement follows the Rules of Situation Comedy

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Contrary to popular belief, critics are not out to savage everything that comes down the pop culture pike. We don't hate everything-- in fact, it's our love of media that compels us to write about it. We're like loving aunts and uncles in our criticisms--we merely want media to be the best it can be. Unlike parents, we're distanced enough to see the potential flaws in the offspring, but close enough to emphasize their potential strengths.

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When it comes to comedy, my primary-- well, really, my only criterion in judging it is this: did it make me laugh? The Marx Brothers movies, with their non sequiturs and double entendres, make me laugh. The Three Stooges, with their slapstick versions of reality, make me laugh. Woody Allen, with his urbane, neurotic visions of modern life, rarely makes me laugh. Albert Brooks, with his neurotic takes on urban life, almost always does.

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Comedy is about incongruity-- taking reality and turning it inside out. From its title, one would conclude Rules of Engagement follows that dictum. It's a title that conjures up a spin-off of The Unit. What it is, though, is a comedy about the different phases of male-female relationships, with the marriage proposal being the pivotal point that somehow makes it make sense.

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Adam (Oliver Hudson) confesses to Russell (David Spade) that he's proposed to Jennifer (Bianca Kajlich). Russell, a 40-something swinging single with a penchant for younger women, thinks its a ridiculous idea, of course. Oddly enough, the conversation takes place in the obligatory coffee shop, a mainstay of sitcoms since the earliest days of Friends. Of course, Russell switches gears and bubbles over with feigned happiness for the couple as soon as Jennifer joins them. It's trademark David Spade, and hardly surprising.

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Fortunately, the pilot gains momentum once we're introduced to Jeff (Patrick Warburton) and Audrey (Megyn Price), married for twelve years and settled into the routine of married life. Think of them as a 21st century version of the Kramdens, more upscale than Ralph and Alice, but with a similar sarcastic bent to their relationship. Their bickering about trivialities belies their love for each other, and provides the show's best lines. Warburton, in particular, plays Jeff with deadpan resignation, unfazed and unsurprised by anything going on around him. When Audrey confronts Jeff about his beer consumption after a game of softball, he says in a righteous monotone, "Four beers, and three lights. . . so five beers."

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In its exploration of the evolution of relationships through the eyes of its principals, Rules of Engagement has its moments. While it never strays far from the formula of the sitcom, right down to the annoying laugh track, it offers a light look at the foibles inherent in the mating ritual. It's not a great comedy-- a midseason replacement while The New Adventures of Old Christine is on hiatus--but it has a great deal of potential. Pitted against both 24 and Heroes, it's unlikely to survive in its current time slot.

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Fortunately, CBS is making it available for viewing on its website, as well. It's worth a view.

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Super Bowl Solutions For the Strong of Heart

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I'm pretty sure my disinterest in American football stems from having my collarbone broken cleanly in half when I was running the ball during an eighth grade skirmish. I had no idea that running fast could inspire that kind of aggression from the opposing team. Having gone through that at an early age, it's been a wee bit difficult for me to sympathize with pro players who take off weeks over a sprained pinkie.

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Once a year, though, I join with millions of other Americans to vicariously celebrate our fixation with the art of pummeling a guy who's just trying to make it from point A to point B while carrying a vaguely egg-shaped ball. I'm talking Super Bowl here. And yeah, I tune in mostly for the commercials. I freakin' love seeing the uncut versions of the advertising world's vision of what's going to rock our world in the coming year. It's a perverse pleasure, I admit, since MadAv rarely synchs with its target demographic in these lavish spots. But I like imagining how they pitched them to their clients in the first place.

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Whether you're a couch potato quarterback or a clueless copywriter wannabe is irrelevant. What makes Super Bowl Sunday the most important unofficial national holiday in the calendar is the food. It's the one day of the year that we not only guiltlessly gorge on food and drink, but are actually encouraged to do so. This is not a day for carefully thought out dinners symbolizing thanks or penance. No, on Super Bowl Sunday, silverware is replaced with paper towels, and the only glassware you'll find are beer bottles. It's our annual homage to our baser instincts. We gather together in the dead of winter to feast and boast with wreckless abandon, shouting to the heavens (or at least our neighbors) in praise of warriors who were only weeks ago our rivals. In short, it's a par-tay of the first degree.

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Rites of this magnitude require a bit of attention. Mind you, I said a bit. While ordering in for pizza was ample in earlier days, the Super Bowl has taken on a life that requires at least a hint of a personal touch. It needn't be anything fancy-- in fact, that would be just wrong given the context of the party. Burgers won't work--grilling takes too much time away from the event, and homemade party trays require, for want of a better word, lots of labor. I googled Super Bowl recipes, and found a wealth of totally worthless information-- unless June Cleever is preparing the feast.

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There are two sacraments in the celebration of Super Bowl-- hot wings and guacamole. And in keeping with the spirit of the event, I like to keep it as simple and painless as humanly possible. And that means no frying is involved. Health issues (which I won't debate) aside, frying requires too much attention, and the end result simply doesn't taste right to me. Nothing should be fried beyond bacon or the ocasional egg. There are better, and tastier ways to make hot wings.

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Here's what you do. We'll just go with the basic formula, and you can do the math according to your needs. Here's what you're going to need:

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24-30 chicken wing drumettes

1 cup barbecue sauce

1/2 cup hot sauce

2 one-gallon ZipLoc bags

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Those are the essentials. I use drumettes rather than whole wings for two reasons: firstly, I don't have to spend time cutting the worthless joint off, and secondly, I've convinced myself it's more economically sound. Pat them dry, and lightly dust with kosher salt and black peper. Let them stand.

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Meanwhile, mix the barbecue sauce and hot sauce, along with whatever other spices you might want to sprinkle in (depending on your level of bravery) and whisk vigorously. A word here for best results: do NOT buy bargain brands, particularly on the hot sauce. Louisiana Hot Sauce and Jack Daniels Hickory Smoke barbecue sauce yield the best results--and no, I'm not on their payroll.

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Put half the wings in a ZipLoc Bag, and the other half in another. Guess what comes next? Yep--pour half of the mixture you've just concocted in one bag, then the other. Seal the bags, and shake vigorously. Make sure there are no air pockets, reseal and place in the refreigerator for a minimum of 2 1/2 hours. Overnight is best, but these are trying times.

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Once all that's done, put the little suckers, uncovered, in a shallow baking pan, separated in a single layer, drizzle with one stick of melted butter and bake at 400 degrees for about an hour, turning once. Otherwise, you're done.

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Now I could be all metrosexual PC, and say "serve with celery sticks and blue cheese dressing", but you're not going to do that anyway. You're going to serve them alongside pizza. Fries are better, though. Trust me. First preheat the oven to 400 degrees. All you need to do then is wash and slice the potatoes , dry them with paper towels and toss with vegetable oil until completely coated. Spray a cookie sheet with PAM and add the potatoes in a single layer. Bake for 20 to 30 minutes, then broil on the center oven rack for about 10 minutes or until potatoes are golden brown.

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That's the main event. But the Super Bowl is a day of snacking, and that means chips and dip. In Dallas, that means either salsa or guacamole. Salsa , at least what I serve, is Texas hot, and that encourages more beer drinking, which depletes my finances. Guacamole, on the other hand,has a cool, but spicy flavor. My wife Elke has devised the perfect recipe for guacomole, and it goes a little something like this:

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For the guacamole you mash the flesh of four soft avocados, add two diced Roma tomatoes, juice of one medium lime, and one tablespoon of finely chopped cilantro. Season to taste with salt, pepper and onion powder and a dash of Cayenne pepper if you like it hot.

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It's a quick and simple recipe at the surface. A bit chunkier than commercial versions, it cries out for a worthy chip. It has to be sturdy first and foremost, able to withstand generous dollops of dip without breaking. And it has to be tasty on its own, but without artificial flavors that compete with the dip.

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What you want for a dipping chip comes either from Mexico, at best, or failing that, South Texas. There are no other options. Tostitos, Doritos and all the other mass-marketed -itos don't cut it. You want a good dipping chip, you have to go authentic tortilla chips.

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It's pretty much a given that your beverage of choice for Super Bowl feasts like this is going to be beer. Assuming you've made the hot wings hot, you're going to need it to extinguish the fire in your mouth. Whatever you do, don't buy a light beer-- it's a marketing oxymoron. Budweiser is most in keeping with the theme of the Super Bowl, if for no other reason than their commercials. I've yet to hear anybody mumble complaints when served Bud. If you want to go more uptown, Corona is an excellent choice.

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That pretty much covers it, I think. Oh, one more thing--don't everybody flush at once. It has national consequences.

Living in a Post-Elvis World

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The rumblings began early in 1956. . . subtle shifts in the plates of popular culture, almost imperceptible at the surface, but stentorian in nature, waitng impatiently to change the texture of the landscape. Meanwhile, the American citizenry went about its collective business, somnabolized by a false sense of duck and tuck security. The GI's had returned from Korea, tricking out Chevys and Fords, discovering the freedom Harleys and Indians offered and conspicuously consuming every appliance General Electric had to offer.

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The rumblings just beneath the complacent surface turned into a burp on 27 January 1956, when Elvis Presley released his major label debut single, "Heartbreak Hotel." He was already something of a a cause celebre in the South, having released a handful of cuts on what would now be called "indie" label Sun. But this was major--Elvis was nationwide. The next day, he appeared on the low-rated Dorsey Brothers' Stage Show. It was a less than auspicious debut. It's said they couldn't give tickets away in Times Square. Word spread quickly, though, and within weeks, Elvis was a Hot Property. Milton Berle booked him for two appearances 3 April, and Steve Allen quickly followed suit,having Elvis live 1 July, going mano y mano against the colossal Ed Sullivan Show.

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The rumblings and burps had grown to tremors. They would not be quelled.

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Ed Sullivan was the undisputed ruler of network TV in 1956. His resume as an entertainment reporter dated back to the '30's. He was an iconoclastic Irishman who'd tried his hand at boxing, and brought his pugilistic style to his reportage. A man of strong convictions, an early supporter of civil rights, he was nonetheless perplexed by the idea of the hip-shaking, vaguely adrodgynous Elvis. He had said he'd not have him on his show. That was before Steve Allen pummelled him in the ratings by featuring Elvis.

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Sullivan's people put an unheard of 50 grand on the table, and Elvis did not one, but three performances on the vaunted Ed Sullivan Show. The rumblings, the burps, the tremors could not be contained any longer. Something had to blow.

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On a Sunday night 7 PM EST, 9 September 1956, the world changed forever. Elvis exploded onto the national consciousness with a nod and a wink, and we would never be the same.

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Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows chronicles the event the way it really happened, kinescope cameras rolling, presenting it uncut, and providing us a glimpse of the American zeitgeist a half-century ago. Elvis was a novelty at that point, considered a flash in the pan who'd be a passing memory within a year. Charles Laughton emceed that night in September, and he treated the entire affair with the British aplomb one would expect from Captain Blye on a good day. He recited bad poetry, better limericks and generally waltzed gracefully around the entire proceedings of that evening. He was subbing for Sullivan, who was recovering from an auto accident, and he worked the moment for all it was worth, even teasing the television audience about the significance of a Gold Record, sandwiched between acrobats and Mercury commercials.

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Elvis wasn't in the New York studio that night. He was in the big El Lay, shooting his debut movie Love Me Tender. The Sullivan audience in NYC, like the rest of America, at least 72 million glued to their sets at home, had to settle for a remote performance. It didn't matter--thsi was Elvis, and that was all that mattered. His movie debut was still two months away, and the single "Love Me Tender" hadn't been released yet. Elvis debuted it that night, after priming the audience with his major hit of the time, "Don't Be Cruel." It was understated at best. But when he closed the program with his band now visible in the performance, hips shaking as he belted out Little Richard's "Ready Teddy" and sliding right into "Hound Dog", it was obvious that America had been slapped into a new phase of popular culture, and that anything that followed would have to be marked as a "post-Elvis world."

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The mythology machine had been revved up, and Elvis was the fuel that powered it. But Colonel Parker and Ed Sullivan were piloting that machine, and all the surrounding PR and media frenzy were rocketing Elvis to a celebrity Olympus that eclipsed even Sinatra. On 28 October 1956, Elvis returned to The Ed Sullivan Show, live and in New York, face to face with the undisputed ratings king of primetime TV himself, the recuperated Ed Sullivan. After an opening act by the Little Gaelic Singers, and the obligatory Big M '57 Mercury commercial, Elvis came out swinging, relaxed, like a champ, with his band in full view, backing him as he launched into a much more vital version of "Don't Be Cruel," deftly changing the tempo to a vibrant rendition of "Love Me Tender."

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If there had been any doubt before, Elvis lay claim to the hitherto unclaimed crown of rock and roll to the unbelievers of mainstream America. He had usurped the consciousness, enough so that he was burned in effigy in some towns that clung to the past. It didn't matter. The post-Elvis world had arrived.

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By his third appearance, 6 January 1957, Elvis was introduced sans introductory Mercury commercials or novelty dog acts. He had the collar popped, and the formless sportscoat was replaced by a glitter vest, foreshadowing what he would become in his Vegas years. He opened with a medley of his greatest hits, once again foreshadowing what would be Elvis in his later years. He zipped through snippets of "Hound Dog", Heartbreak Hotel" and "Don'tBe Cruel" in a matter of moments, with the camera all focusing on his face. This was the infamous appearance wherein American censors decreed that anything below the waist might hurl civilization into an age of darkness. The strangeness of it all nonetheless worked. It was an oddly surreal night in which Carol Burnett made her national debut, and Sullivan offered boxing legend Sugar Ray Robinson defensive tips. There were clown acts, ventriloquists and dancers, not to mention Mercury commercials that played up the '57 Merc Montclair as a utopian vehicle without peer.

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It was a momentous program in more ways than one. The Sullivan shows were, at heart, the last of the vaudeville revues. But they also ushered in the new medium of television and were the foundation for the direction variety shows would take. Elvis Presley was arguably the first superstar of video and rock and roll. He closed that evening's show with the gospel standard "Peace in the Valley." Suddenly, rock and roll didn't seem all that dangerous, after all. America had its first idol.

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Elvis: The Ed Sullivan Shows preserves all three performances exactly as they were presented fifty years ago, commercials and all. It's the first time that viewers have been able to see Elvis in such an accurate context, but more importantly, it affords us a glimpse of a culture that was radically different from the world in which we now live. These three discs are essential viewing for anybody with a passing interest in the evolution of pop culture. Besides their purely historical significance, they're vastly entertaining. Special features include Elvis Presley's first film appearance ( a silent 8mm fillm snippet of him performing outside Houston), promos for the shows, reminisces of the times told through interviews with his friends and associates, and an Elvis-only performance option. I don't recommend utilizing that option. To get the full impact of the performances, it's best to see the entire program. I do, however, advise the option of 5.1 Surround Sound. Mono is okay, but digital stereo makes it all the more vivid.

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Blues in a Box

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John Mayall's inestimable influence on the evolution of British blues stems more from his talents as a bandleader than from his own talents as a musician. While he's a very gifted instrumentalist, particularly on blues harp, and an adequate vocalist, it's his unerring ear for recognizing raw talent that's made John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, in all its incarnations, the legend that it is today.

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Mayall had been playing music professionally since 1955, but it wasn't until he moved to London in 1963 , with John McVieand formed the earliest incarnation of the Bluesbreakers, with John McVie on bass, that his reputation as a live act begain to garner recognition. And it wasn't until 1965, when Eric Clapton left the Yardbirds to join the Bluesbreakers that both became synonymous with the blues in England. The album that followed, Bluesbreakers with Eric Clapton catapulted them into blues rock legends.

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Clapton went on to form Cream, and Mayall replaced him with Peter Green, who left to start his own band, Fleetwood Mac. Mick Taylor was brought in to the Buesbreakers, and he soon joined the Rolling Stones. John Mayall's Bluesbreakers was not so much a band as it was a proving ground for raw talent, and the only constant in the lineup over its four-decade span is Mayall himself. He's always known what sound he wanted, and he's never been hesitant in coaxing it out of his proteges.

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Essentially John Mayall is an aptly titled five-disc boxed set that reunites Mayall with some of the guitarists who earned their stripes under him, as well as showcasing his latest charges, most notably Texas guitarist Buddy Whittington. Comprising this set are four discs Mayall released from 1999-2001: Padlock on the Blues, Along for the Ride, Stories and 70th Birthday Concert, as well as a bonus disc of "exclusive live rarities." It's hardly a quintessential collection, but the 59 tracks represented here remind us of the influence Mayall has exerted over the past 40+ years in defining British blues.

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Considering that John Mayall has over fifty albums under his belt, it's unseemly at first glance to call this set Essentially John Mayall, but that's exactly what it is. While some of it could have been called in (particularly Stories and much of Padlock on the Blues), it nonetheless represents the migration of the blues into the mainstream consciousness. Much of the material on these two discs is reminiscent of the boogie-bar band style of blues that encourages patrons to tip the waitresses and bartenders between sets "because they're workin' real hard just for you." By and large, it nestles in the Texas bar band style of blues rock. Some of this no doubt has to do with Buddy Whittington's guitar playing, augmented by Mayall's, vocals, piano and blues harp work. It's blues-based, but it's not exactly the blues. They're serviceable discs, though, including spots with John Lee Hooker, and illustrate Mayall's influence on the evolution of southern rock.

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Any perceived shortcomings of those two discs are more than made up for with 70th Birthday Concert, John Mayall and Friends and Exclusive Live Rarities. Here, Mayall does what he has always done best--let the stars he discovered shine brightly. The roll call of white blues guitar stars is impressive. Besides Eric Clapton and Mick Taylor, there are tracks featuring Peter Green, Jeff Healey, Gary Moore and Andy Fairweather Low and Billy Gibbons., as well as second tier players like Steve Miller, and the unlikely man who introduced Europe to American blues, jazz trombonist Chris Barber. Billy Preston's there, too, as are John McVie, Mick Fleetwood and Coco Montoya. The one commonality between them all is they pay homage to their blues roots and the man who steered them, either directly or by his influence on the evolution of rock, to their individual musical destinies.

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For longtime fans of John Mayall, Essentially John Mayall offers few surprises. Longeivity tends to do that to an artist. The Bluesbreakers albums of the late sixties are among the best white blues ever recorded. It becomes an easy matter to say his best work is behind him. Orson Welles peaked before he turned thirty. Mayall has been doing it for over fifty years now, and, yeah, he's mellowed a bit over the years. Now in his seventies, Mayall is an elder statesman of the blues, particularly the British version of it. That version has become corrupted through the decades, as has the blues in general. It's all become stiff upper lip, playing the riffs all too neatly. .

Mayall, though, has reamained more or less true to his love of Chicago-style blues. That's part of the reason the Bluesbreakers have undergone so many personnel changes. Clapton and Green went on to more mainstream concerns. Whittington hasn't--yet. John Mayall evolves by not evolving. At 73, he's proven that white boys can play the blues.

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Sleeper Cell is no 24-- and That's a Good Thing

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It's become a bit trendy among some TV critics (and I use that term advisedly) to compare Showtime's Sleeper Cell to Fox's 24. Not only is that wrongheaded, lazy reportage, it's just flat-out stupid. Beyond the theme of potential terrorism on American soil, the two series have precious little in common. Let me rephrase that--they have absolutely nothing in common.

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I'm not knocking 24--hell, I've followed it religiously for going on six years now, often to the dismay of family and employers. (Random note to self--gotta get a TIVO.) I love the show, despite its leaps in logic, not the least of which being that all this mayhem takes place in a mere 24 hours. Sleeper Cell moves at a more deliberate, but no less deadly pace.

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Sleeper Cell: American Terror picks up where the first season ended, give or take a few months. After thwarting the terrorist attack on Dodgers Stadium last season, FBI operative Darwyn al-Sayeed (Michael Ealy) just wants to get on with his life. After all, Faris al-Farik (Oded Fehr) is in US custody, and his cell has apparently been destroyed. Darwyn emerged unscathed, and he's been offered a teaching position at the FBI Academy. But he's quickly drawn back into the role of field agent when he's persuaded to recon Benny Velazquez (Kevin Alejandro). Darwyn and Benny had met while Darwin was doing his prison stint, and Benny has attracted the notice of the FBI because he's joined a radical mosque in San Diego. Meanwhile, cell leader al-Farik, tucked away in an American prison of undisclosed location, is enduring indignities and unorthodox CIA interrogation techniques, but remains steadfast in his extremist beliefs.

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Thus the stage is set for another tale of intrigue and betrayal told in a grippingly realistic fashion. This is not a story told in black and white, good versus evil--rather, it flows in ever-shifting shades of gray. Darwin is a man torn between his Muslim faith, his racial identity and his sense of duty. As an ex-Marine, an African-American, with an Anglo girlfriend who's married but separated, he has a lot on his plate as it is. But even though his work as an undercover agent requires subterfuge and deception, he wades through life with a stoic resignation, compromising principles in the name of the greater good.

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The imprisoned al-Farik is no less devout, but his fundamentalist viewpoint has led him to believe his terrorist tactics are not only justified, but divinely inspired. Through his eyes, we almost understand, if not sympathize with, his extremist viewpoint. He's a radical terrorist who truly believes the West is responsible for the evils of the world, and that he's justified in taking whatever actions he can to cleanse the world of its influence. He's undeniably intelligent, even charming to a degree, and is steadfast in his beliefs even under duress of torture.

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It's in its unflinching presentation of the dichotomies inherent in the global war on terror that Sleeper Cell: American Terror makes its mark as one of the most provocative TV series around, cable or otherwise. Once Darwyn is forced to kill the leader of a new terror cell who has blown his cover, he finds himself thrust into the role of their new leader. We're introduced to a number of new characters within this cell, each of them with a plausible backstory. There's Mina, a former Dutch prostitute who got caught up in extremist Muslim beliefs through an Iraqi lover; Salim, an Iraqi expat raised in England, where he learned to misinterpret Islam; and the aforementioned Latino gang member who converted to radical Islam while in prison. They all have their own motives, united in their devotion to their ambiguous cause.

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While Sleeper Cell does present any number of viewpoints, it is by no means one-sided. It shows evil as evil, whether it's perpetrated by Islamic terrorists or American interrogators. It's a series that is unafraid to portray the world in which we currently live in no uncertain terms. Perhaps its most jarring moment comes at the end of the episode, when Darwyn's handler from last season, Patrice Serxner, is executed by extremists. It's broadcast via the Internet, and aptly illustrates how insidious this conflict is.

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While Showtime did air this miniseries on consecutive nights during the holidays, and all eight episodes are available on Showtime on Demand, Sleeper Cell: American Terror is beginning its weekly run on the cable network now. If you can see it, do. This is one of the most provocative television dramas you're likely to see.

Dexter Had a Nice Christmas After All

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Saying goodbye to Dexter, even though it's only for a few months, is not easy. Like a suicide without a passing note, the series left us with so many unanswered questions. Maybe Dexter was caught up in the holiday spirit-- those last three episodes did have a macabre holiday theme. Or perhaps the producers of the series knew they'd packed a little too much in the twelve episodes of the first season, and prodded the writers to wrap it up, dangling plot threads be damned. And there are a lot of dangling plot threads.

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It's been a few weeks now since the finale first aired--time enough to recover from the holidays, time enough to reflect on those twelve episodes, especially those last three. "Seeing Red," "Truth Be Told" and "Born Free" work as one large season finale, tied together with a very macabre holiday theme. That's part of the reason it's taken this long to write this final Dexter piece. Body parts wrapped in festive bows and ribbons didn't seem wholly in keeping with the season.

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I know the furor over the series has died down, so to speak, which makes it a bit easier to look back at it with jaded eyes. Don't get me wrong-- I still think Dexter is the most original take on the crime drama ever to come down the pike. There was nothing remotely realistic about the twelve episodes, but that was what made it work. The premise of a forensics expert working for the Miami PD, and moonlighting as a serial killer who only preys on murderers beyond the reach of the law is the delightfully implausible stuff of comic books, and the plotlines reflected that. The recurring cast of characters-- Dexter's flighty but determined, foul-mouthed but lovable foster sister Deb, the tough guy with a dark secret cop Doakes, the manipulative, politically ambitious Lt. LaGuerta, Angel, whose easy-going style belied his detective abilities--were broadly drawn and often over the top.

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None of it should have worked, and in lesser hands, none of it would have. But by the writers' choosing to have at least most of the continuing plot seen from Dexter's perspective, it did. Michael C. Hall's portrayal of Dexter--disarmingly charming on the outside, calculating killer on the inside-- was what riveted us to the screen through the series. It was almost enough to forgive the potential plot threads that ended up tossed by the wayside, to accept the leaps in logic that made us believe Dexter could go unnoticed as he merrily killed evildoers.

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That final three-episode arc sucked us inexorably into Dexter's world. We simply had to know how it all began, what originally posessed him. We already knew that Rudy was the Ice Truck Killer, and we'd all pretty much surmised that he and Dexter shared a past. What we didn't know was why Rudy was obsessed with Dexter. Close your eyes now if you don't want to know.

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Okay. Rudy and Dexter were brothers all along. They both witnessed their mother's death by chainsaw in a drug deal gone bad, and were locked in a storage container for three days soaked in their mother's blood. Thanks to Harry, rescuing him (he was only three at the time), Dexter was able to submerge those memories. That explains why Dexter insisted he couldn't connect to other people, while all the while connecting to other people.

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Rudy (real name Brian Moser, older brother of Dexter Moser) was not so fortunate. Dexter was able to submerge his memories, thanks to the loving upbinging of Harry and family, Rudy was not. For reasons unexplained, Rudy instead spent his formative years in mental institutions. That didn't deter him from keeping up with little brother's progress, though. How he did that is also left largely to the viewer's speculation.

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But when Rudy, in rapid succession, proposes to Deb, drugs her, binds her and readies her for slice and dice, all in some vague mindset of making Dexter recognize his true destiny, Dexter has no choice but to put him down--like a mad dog. It's a conundum, though--Deb is the only family he's ever known, but Rudy is the only person who will ever accept him for what he is.

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In the end, love for Deb trumps bloodline, and Dexter eliminates Rudy by hanging him upside down, slitting his throat and draining his blood from him, the same way Rudy killed his victims. I'm still not certain the authorities would dismiss it as a dramatically ghastly suicide, but they do. The Ice Truck Killer is finally dead, and Dexter has a nice Christmas after all.

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It all moved at a breakneck pace, and was a thrill-packed alternative to traditional holiday fare. In retrospect, though, you can't help but feel a little shortchanged. Ther were a lot of potential subplots that were set up, but never fully explored. We know Doakes has a mysterious past, and is not above assassination. Paul, in prison now, realizes Dexter set him up. LaGuerta has been demoted, but may have a new ally. The relationship between Dexter and Rita seems to be solid, but even she is beginning to realize there is more to Dexter than she had thought.

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Season Two is on the way. . .

The Man in Black in the Land of Green

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There's a telling moment near the end of Johnny Cash in Ireland that sums up the man more succinctly than any scholarly dissertation ever could. The concert is winding down, and Cash has just introduced Sandy Kelly to help him perform "Forty Shades of Green," a song he wrote that the Irish took to their collective heart. "There's argument about who wrote this song," he says in that deep, rolling voice.as he cues the performance. "I wrote it--in 1959." You hear an audience member shout, "No you didn't!" Cash doesn't break stride as the intro strains begin. "Yes I did," he replies with a wry smile that segues effortlessly into the song.

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Okay, I'll admit you probably need to see the moment to appreciate it fully. Words don't really convey that flash of fire from those dark eyes, that spark of a knowing grin, that presence that commanded his surroundings and needed no confirmation. If Johnny Cash said it, or, even better, if he sang it, something in you knew it rang with truth.

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Since in his death in 2003, there has been no dearth of posthumous Johnny Cash releases, ranging from the extraordinary to the banal, with a few jewels packed into the mix. Johnny Cash in Ireland falls into that last bunch. Filmed in 1993 as an installment of an Irish television series, this is hardly one of Cash's landmark performances. That's not to say, however, that it's a show to be ignored. Johnny Cash shows never were.

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Johnny Cash and June Carter may have been past their prime when they did this show (indeed, Cash would quit touring about three years later), but the energy of this show still eclipses any number of contemporary performers. Sure, the format is reminiscent of the American TV series that ran 1969-71, but that only sparks vagrant memories of headier times. Cash was a gentleman outlaw then-- a brilliant musical subversive who charmed his way into prime time through the universality of his music, and introduced us to a whole new generation of music troublemakers in the process.

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Johnny Cash in Ireland shows that over twenty years later, he had lost none of that spunk. It may be an episode of the Dublin series Country from the Olympia, but there's no mistaking it for anything less than the Johnny Cash show. Featuring what was left of the legendary Carter Family, Kris Kristofferson, Sandy Kelly and his only son, John Carter Cash, Live in Ireland is a revue showcasing some of Cash's greatest hits, as well as some of his older nuggets. "Folsom Prison Blues" is there, of course, but so is the rockabilly classic "Get Rhythm."

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Cash doesn't showboat, though--he gives his band plenty of room, as well he should, since the Tennessee Three were instrumental to his unique sound. He never forgot his roots, or his love, and the Carter Family, with June figuring predominantly, take center stage on a few tunes, particularly "Wabash Cannonball."

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Still it's the imposing presence of Johnny Cash that makes this an arresting performance. He manages to make "A Boy Named Sue" still sound fresh, and "(Ghost) Riders in the Sky" eerily haunting. When Kristofferson joins him on "Long Black Veil," the awe he has for Cash is obvious. And well it should be--Cash paved the way for him, and an entire generation of musicians seeking to expand the parameters of country music.

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Johnny Cash was undoubtedly one of the most important musicians of the twentieth century. He took his music out of the country ghetto, and made it something to which everybody from punks to rappers could relate. Johnny Cash in Ireland may be a minor chapter in his performing career, but it still offers a glimpse into his brilliance as a showman and a performer. And for anyone who grew up on the music of Johnny Cash, it will bring a nostalgic tear to the eye. It's unlikely we'll see his kind again.

Factotum Labors at Many Trades, And Masters the Optimism of Despair

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The writings of Charles Bukowski are an acquired taste. Praised by some critics as intuitive literary genius and derided by others as the ramblings of a serious alcoholic with delusions of literary grandeur, one simple fact remains. He hit on a collective nerve that had little to do with alcoholism, womanizing or gambling--it had to do with pursuing a life well lived. He never apologized for his shortcomings--he reveled in them.

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Factotum, the movie, doesn't stray far from that premise. Where it differs is in its Scandinavian approach to the source material. The American directorial debut of acclaimed Norwegian director Bent Haner, Factotum springboards Bukowski's early days into an allegorical everyman's tale in which the protagonist never fully realizes redemption.

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Matt Dillon portrays Hank Chinaski (ostensibly Bukowski's alter ego) as a man disconnected from the realities of the world. His only passion in life is writing, and he's not all that passionate about that. He jots down his thoughts occasionally, but women, menial jobs, horse tracks and seedy bars distract him from his efforts. He's a factotum, a person who wanders aimlessly from job to job. "I just want to get my paycheck and get drunk," he tells an employer after being fired from one of several jobs.

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It would be far too easy to discount Factotum as plotless rambling. To do so, however, would be nothing less than a surrender to the banalaties of big budget movies. This is not a film driven by plot so much as it is by character, and in that regard, it shines. In what may be his finest performance to date, Dillon imbues the Chinaski character (read that Bukowski) with a stoic resignation towards the obstacles that confront him. Most of those obstacles, of course, are roadblocks of his own making--his refusal to compromise to anyone or anything besides his vices-- but he never lets them overcome his singular ambition of becoming a published writer. When he's not boozing or playing the horses, he's scribbling random thoughts on a yellow legal pad, and dropping his manuscripts in the mail, with fruitless results.

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Accompanying Chinaski through much of the film is the equally besotted Jan, (Lili Taylor, Six Feet Under). Their relationship, based mostly on their mutual alcoholism is, is, as one would expect, rocky at best. But at its core, it's based more on a disregard for society's expectations than chemical dependency. The bond the pair share supercedes the haze in how their days and nights are spent. In one particularly amusing scene, they're awakened in the middle of the night by the commotion of a fire in their apartment block. They merely shrug it off, and go back to sleep.

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It's all set in a surreal version of Los Angeles, bereft of sun and palm trees, or even much of a populace. It's a desolate, gray place (with seamier sections of Minneapolis filling in for El Lay), seen through the eyes of the isolated. In Bukowski/Chanefski's world, "political correctness" is a term that doesn't exist--people smoke openly in offices, people drunkedly wander deserted streets and random fisticuffs go largely unnoticed. Even the time frame is uncertain-- working class sixties mores juxtapose with PT Cruisers and computers in an assembly line world where automation has yet to replace the working grunt.

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Of course, we're seeing all this through Chanefski's version of the world, and in that convoluted logic, it all makes sense. He sees the absurdities of day to day existence, and gives no pause to consider life beyond its underbelly. His resultant world view is both egocentric and distanced. Since he sees the world only in terms of how it affects his personal aspirations, it's not surprising that his version of Los Angeles is cold and desolate.

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Factotum works best when viewed in the context of allegory. It's ultimately a story of sacrifice in the name of art. As Dillon interprets the character, Chanefski never veers from his personal Holy Grail. The menial jobs, the bouts of homelessness, the drunken binges, the meaningless dalliances with various women--all are ingredients to feed his dream. And even though the film's ending is ambiguous, it leaves the viewer with a sense that it might, just maybe have been worth it after all. He's sleeping on a park bench as the credits begin to roll, but that doesn't preclude him from soliloquy.

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"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don't even start," he advises us. "This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs. And maybe your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery, isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance. Of how much you really want to do it. And you'll do it, despite rejection in the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods. And the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."

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Despite its measured pacing and often misanthropic viewpoint, Factotum should be required viewing for anyone who ever harbored a dream. It's bleak, often funny, sometimes almost boring and moves at an unsteady rhythm. In short, it's a lot like life.

Scooby Doo's Saddest Day

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Iwao Takamoto, the man who created Scooby Doo for Hanna-Barbera Productions, has died at the age of 81. His passing, less than a month after the death of Joe Barbera, marks yet another sad milestone in the annals of pop culture.

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The son of Japanese immigrants, Takamoto was born 1925 in Los Angeles. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, he, like thousands of other Japanese-Americans, spent WW2 in an internment camp in the California desert. It was there that he learned illustration from fellow internees. Despite the lack of formal training, he was able to land a job as an assistant at Walt Disney Studios in 1947. He worked as an animator on several Disney features, including Lady and the Tramp and 101 Dalmatians before joining the Hanna-Barbera team in 1961.

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While he was responsible for the design of several characters, including the Jetsons' Astro and Penelope Pitstop, he'll be most remembered as the creator of Scooby Doo. It was he who brought the cowardly but adventurous Great Dane, and the rest of the Mystery, Inc. gang to life in 1969, and was largely responsible for Scoob's continuing status as a contemporary cultural icon.

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Takamoto designed the character of Scooby Doo after talking with a Great Dane breeder about the finer physical attributes of the breed--straight back, straight legs, angular jaw and the like. In classic cartoon mindset, he went the opposite direction in his design, giving Scooby a goofy humped back, huge chin and large loopy legs. The origins of his name come from a scatline in Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night." It was one of those incongruous cartoon designs that was an instant hit, and made Scooby Doo, in his various incarnations, the longest running Saturday morning cartoon character in history.

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Takamoto's Scooby Doo is, depending on who you talk to, one of the most loveable, or one of the most ingratiating cartoon characters to come out of the Hanna-Barbera studios. Even though the stories were thin and formulaic, the comic relief that Scooby and his allegedly stoner cohort Shaggy lent to the series resonated in the public consciousness. Besides the cartoons that remain popular even with the youngest generations, Takamoto's creation inspired two regrettable live-action feature films. The CGI incarnation of Scooby Doo in those films was a pale imitation of the character Takamoto created.

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Iwao Takamoto created an immortal character in Scooby Doo. And now he enters the pantheon of departed but immortal animation legends.