Writer's Block As a Way of Life

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For some unfathomable reason, writers are usually portrayed as angst-ridden, tortured souls, riddled by guilt and bearing the weight of the world’s sorrows on their shoulders. Of course, such depictions of writers are invariably written by writers, so it’s not that surprising. After all, self-loathing sells, assuming it’s packaged correctly.

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Californication (premiered Monday on Showtime, 10:30 PM EST) manages to take that iconic cliché and update it into a fully realized, contemporary character. Hank Moody (David Duchovny) is the author of a critically acclaimed first novel. ”God Hates Us All” has been optioned as a movie, a romantic comedy re-titled “A Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” That in itself would be enough to chaff any writer, what with the requisite move from NYC to LA, and the attendant realizations that writers rank rather low on the tinsel town food chain. In Moody’s case, it results in severe writer’s block, alleviated by sports sex and heavy drinking. That alone would make for a situation with which writers at any level could relate, but Californication complicates matters by making Moody a sympathetic character.

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For reasons unexplained, Moody’s ex-girlfriend and love of his life, Karen (Natascha McElhone) and his precocious twelve-year-old daughter Becca (Madeleine Martin) also live in LA, making visitation much more convenient for all involved. But it’s the relationship between these three characters that cements the series in reality. At its heart, Californication is really a show about the extreme routes our quests for purpose take us. As distanced from each other as Hank and Karen would like to think they are, neither can escape the fact that Becca bonds them together.

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It’s hardly maudlin, though. That underlying dynamic serves as a springboard for many of the episode’s gags, most of which revolve around Hank’s covert sexual escapades. And there are several of those here, recounted playfully, if somewhat explicitly. You can’t call it gratuitous, though — the dalliances are integral to Hank’s character. He’s a man slowly disintegrating from within, clinging to reality by moments, wherever he finds them. The pilot hints that some of those moments may come back to haunt him, particularly in the case of one dalliance who he thought was a college student.

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With Californication, Showtime further positions itself as the prime source of original programming on premium cable. Airing after Weeds, it’s another series that illustrates the network’s commitment to provocative drama and comedy. Like Weeds and Dexter, Californication expands the boundaries of episodic television. It’s not a series designed for the lowest common denominator. But for those yearning for a comedic series that can speak to universal themes, Californication is a beacon of hope for the future.

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Oh, yeah — it’s pretty freakin’ funny, too.

No Wonder I'm Addicted to Weeds

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When last we left our hapless heroes, at the close of season two, things weren’t exactly going swimmingly. In fact, it was a standoff of Tarantino proportions. By all accounts, Nancy’s DEA husband of convenience, Peter, had been offed by the Armenian mob. Silas, in a fit of teenage rebellion, had disappeared to points unknown, and Shane had taken it upon himself to scout out Pittsburgh as a new home for the family.

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Meanwhile, Nancy and Conrad, not knowing any of this, but realizing that their crop has become a hot commodity for all the wrong reasons, were all set to sell out to up and coming gangsta U-Turn when the Armenians burst in demanding the pot. Guns were drawn in every direction, forcing Nancy to open the safe, only to find the pot was no longer there.

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As I said, just about everybody involved had seen better days.

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Don’t expect a cookie-cutter resolution to these dire events in the season premiere of Weeds. As this Showtime series embarks on its third season, Weeds continues down its serpentine route satirizing the dualities of suburban middle class life. In fact, with this opener, Weeds further entrenches itself as the most fully realized comedy series ever aired on American television.

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The genius of Weeds has always been in its ability to hold our frailties and hypocrisies to the light. “Doing the Backstroke,” this season’s debut episode, continues that tradition, and kicks it up a notch. Without giving too much away, everybody survives the Mexican standoff — for now, anyway. After all, it was never really about a drug deal gone bad, any more than the series has ever really been about dealing pot in the suburbs. That’s all metaphor to explore larger issues of corruption at every level of life.

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Weeds doesn’t bat you about the head to deliver that message — it tickles you into submission instead. Running jokes are woven subtly into the thread of the plot, pointing to our dependence on cell phones as lifelines, our tenuous relationships with friends and relatives, and our day to day struggles to make ends meet. That it’s all delivered with a wicked wink and an impish grin makes it all the more enticing.

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If this episode is any indication, the third season of Weeds looks to be its finest yet, striking a balance between the melancholy whimsy of the first season and the darker tones of the second. In thirty minutes, it’s set the stage for a multitude of subplots, any of which could veer off in an infinite variety of directions. One thing is certain, though. Wherever you think the plot may be headed, you’re wrong. And that is precisely why you’ll come back for another hit.

Weeds season premiere airs tonight on Showtime, 10PM, EST, and will be available on Showtime On Demand any time. You can also see the debut online with a Showtime VIP Insider pass.

The Unbearable Lightness of Lisa Germano

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Lisa Germano views life from its ragged edges, and sends back her dispatches as gossamer whispers wrapped in wine-soaked irony. Startling by virtue of its simplicity, her music wafts dreamily through dimly lit corridors inhabited by demons we’d rather not face. She’s so beguiling, speaking like a waif, her voice punctuated by an almost random piano or discordant calliope, it takes a moment to realize these are cautionary tales born of confession.

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The beauty of Germano’s work doesn’t lie in lyrics couched in regret or redemption — it’s in her almost whimsical resignation to whatever particular hell she may be observing. Her last CD, In the Maybe World, was one of the best (and one of the more obscure) albums of 2006. It masterfully dealt with finality, or more exactly, that transcendent area between the dimensions of life and death. Quiet and haunting, it was an oddly optimistic work that was never intended to broach the top forty. Critics, myself included, largely praised it, but it found only a limited audience.

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The reissue of 2003’s Lullaby for Liquid Pig represents something of a prologue to In the Maybe World, as well as explaining what could have been perceived as a nearly eight year gap between Germano’s recordings. Originally released on the ARTISTdirect imprint, it received glowing reviews at the time. However, the label shut down shortly after, and the album went out of print and into obscurity. Fortunately, Young God, Germano’s current label, has re-released it in a handsome 2-disc package that includes home recordings and live performances.

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Lullaby for Liquid Pig, like the later In the Maybe World, is a themed album. But where the latter dealt with finality, Pig explores obsession and addiction in its various incarnations. It’s not that she’s seeking redemption — it’s more like she’s inviting guests into her parlor to share a drink and reminisce about mutual frailties. It’s my favorite feeling/not there .what a good place to be/too bad it’s still raining inside, she quietly giggles against a wash of little girl music boxes on “Candy,” celebrating her relationship with alcohol, but lamenting at the close, “too bad I got nowhere today.” She shrugs it off, leaving us feeling a bit awkward, but fascinated by her candor.

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If she’s angry, it’s only at her own shortcomings, and she usually buries them so deeply in her whispered whimsies that when they do surface, they elicit empathy rather than sympathy. In Germano’s corner of the universe, demons cavort with angels, with neither faction wrestling for the upper hand. Neither can exist without the other, so they resort to using the psyche as their playground. In “Liquid Pig,” the demon is “a freak magnet,” attracting enabling partiers, but in “Lullaby for Liquid Pig,” the pig has attained angel status. Without you here/without your love/the world is just there/it doesn’t move me.

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It’s not as bleak as it sounds at first glance. Germano is a brilliant tour guide, pointing out little cracks of joy nestled here and there in her sometimes neurotic meanderings. In fact, it all has a bit of a carnival atmosphere, dominated by Neil Finn’s eerie optigon renderings playing off Germano’s fractured piano runs. Johnny Mar and Craig Ross add guitar nuances, and Wendy Melvoin, along with Butch and Joey Waronker, keep the percussion effective but subdued. Sebastian Steinberg’s flowing bass imbues the entire affair with an otherworldly spirit.At its core, Lullaby for Liquid Pig, like In the Maybe World, is a paean to the future. Even at its darkest moments, it finds a sense of balance in the absurdities of life. What results is an album that at scarcely thirty minutes, speaks volumes about coping with the pitfalls and pratfalls of addictions and obsessions. In the end, it’s a fluffy pillow to comfort you in your darkest thoughts. And that’s not such a bad way to fall asleep.

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The bonus disc on this reissue is far from filler. The live performances offer a more intimate portrait of Lisa Germano, affording us a glimpse of he self-deprecating sense of humor, and the home recordings and alternate takes sometimes outshine the final version. The most odd aspect of the bonus disc, however, is that it’s almost twice as long as the album itself. No matter. Lisa Germano is a voice who beckons you into recesses of the soul. And once you’ve explored them, you emerge a little bit better for the journey.

Walking Through Weeds

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Weeds has never really been about a widowed suburbanite who deals pot to her friends and neighbors to make ends meet. That’s merely a metaphor. In fact, almost every aspect of Weeds works as metaphor. First, there’s the name of the LA suburb “Agrestic”, which is an Old English word meaning “characteristic of the fields”, but also means “crude and lacking in sophistication.” The characters in the series all represent some degree of disenfranchisement within their political and social strata. Marijuana is actually the most minor component of Weeds, serving as a crude capitalist icon from which everything else emanates. Or maybe I get high just watching Weeds. It’s addictive that way.

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Season one was an enjoyable romp through some of suburbia’s darker boulevards. While Mary-Louise Parker’s portrayal of small time suburban pot dealer Nancy Botwin was the force that kept it cohesive, the interplay between her and the characters surrounding her made the show pop. Kevin Nealon, as Doug Hunter, and Elizabeth Perkins, as Celia Hodes, in particular, were outstanding symbols of middle class extremes. Both pointed to the dirty little secrets that lurked beneath the veneer of the pristine gated community. Doug was the city councilman who was perpetually stoned, but maintained his CPA business, and Celia was the PTA president whose obsession with image didn’t preclude her extramarital activities. And, of course, both were close to Nancy.

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With season two, Weeds expands on its suburban satire, and wisely takes the storyline into more logical, often darker realms. What we get as a result is a series that weaves seamlessly between broad comedy and scalpel sharp drama, and never misses a beat between transitions. Plot points introduced in the first season flow effortlessly into the second, progressing in a way that unfolds much like life does. Alliances have shifted. Nancy and Conrad have decided to expand their operation, and grow their own. Heylia, Conrad’s aunt and Nancy’s supplier, isn’t happy about this, for obvious reasons. When Nancy’s bakery burns down (perhaps aided by Sanjay), it presents a perfect opportunity for Nancy and Conrad to eliminate the middle man, however.

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As rosy as all that may sound, the growing business is not without complications. After all, Nancy is trying to raise her two sons, Silas and Shane, who are in separate stages of pubescent male hormone pinball. Silas is exerting his male dominance factor, usually not very well. And Shane is torn between the newfound joys of masturbation and realizing that joining the debate team is a good way to make certain chicks notice him. Uncle Andy isn’t the best role model for them, but there may be hope in the Israeli ex-commando who teaches him that she can be more man than he’ll ever be (long story, that one). As if that weren’t complicated enough, Nancy has entered into a marriage of convenience with DEA agent Peter—the mutual reasoning being that he can’t ever testify against her. And after Celia defeats Doug in the city council election, they enter into a torrid affair. There’s more, but this should be enough to make your head spin.

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Of course, it could all lapse into silly comedy, but series creator Jenji Kohan and her team of writers hone each episode with such surgical precision that you barely notice the precise instants when the storyline veers into darkly dramatic territory. The characters don’t seem to realize it, either. By and large, they go blithely through their day to day routine, mostly oblivious to all but their most immediate concerns. In fact, only the characters most involved with pot, from dealers to users to Feds, are even remotely aware of the forces transpiring around them. Even then, the principals in Weeds amplify the mundane aspects of their lives to the point that the larger issues don’t register with them until they’re potentially beyond their control.

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It all culminates as the season unfolds, with the Armenian mafia in a Mexican standoff with a couple of gangsta hustlers. Both sides want Nancy’s and Conrad’s stash. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have it, since her son Silas has already jacked it. It’s a cliffhanger that surpasses Tarantino in terms of tension. Season three debuts on Showtime 13 August. I have a feeling that life in the suburbs is going to get a lot more complicated.

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In the meantime, season one (ten episodes) and season two (twelve episodes) are available on DVD, and as downloads directly from Showtime. This is groundbreaking comedy that balances outrageous humor with provocative social commentary. The beauty of it is that it never gets heavy-handed on either end of the spectrum. And even though it has moments of taut drama, Weeds never strays far from being, well... mellow.

The Very Inconvenient Truths About How We Fucked Up In Iraq

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I was watching the news the other day — MSNBC, CNN, it doesn’t matter — when I saw a video clip that was almost surreal. The Prez was jogging with two double amputees. Apparently, they were Iraq War veterans who had been outfitted with the latest in prosthetics, proving that they can run with the best of them. Now, while it’s great that technology in that area has progressed to the point that people can function regardless of disabilities, it’s distasteful as hell that Bush would use the jog as another photo op and a plug for his latest half-assed assurance that veterans will be afforded the very best in medical care. It caused me to flashback to the first of May 2003, when Bush, resplendent in fighter pilot gear, stood astride an aircraft carrier and proclaimed that the Coalition had emerged victorious in the Iraqi War.

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Over four years later, over 4000 American soldiers have died in Iraq, and more than 20,000 have been wounded. Some estimates put the Iraqi civilian death toll at well over 600,000. Clearly, in the summer of 2003, the battle to secure Iraq was just beginning.

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No End in Sight is a film that coldly details the crucial missteps by the Bush administration in the days following the fall of Baghdad. First-time director Charles Ferguson’s film cannot be described as a left wing diatribe — there are no Michael Moore-style bombastics here. Rather, this is a film that raises emotional temperature by virtue of its objective approach. Ferguson, a former senior fellow at the Brookings Institute, with a solid background in political science, steers away from obvious ideology, allowing the chronology of events to speak for themselves.

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Putting those events into perspective are a number of administration officials, including former Deputy Secretary of State Richard Armitage, General Jay Garner (who was initially in charge of the Iraqi occupation) and Ambassador Barbara Bodine, who was in charge of Baghdad in 2003. Many of the people interviewed were on the ground in Iraq, and those who weren’t, were directly involved in the planning stages of Iraqi reconstruction. The most impassioned of the interviewees is Col. Paul Hughes, former officer of strategic policy in Iraq. He pulls no punches as he recounts how his efforts, and those of other advisors, were trivialized, and in many cases outright ignored, by administration officials at home.

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No End in Sight takes no position on our justifications for going to war with Iraq. It does look at how we fucked up the aftermath by allowing career politicians with no military experience to oversee the rebuilding of the country. As a result, we were left with insufficient troop levels to maintain the unsteady peace. Donald Rumsfeld and others in the Bush administration labored under the fallacious premise that the Coalition forces would be greeted as liberators. As a result, they paid scant attention to the realities of what was happening on the ground, and essentially turned a deaf ear to military officials working there. In effect, there was no plan to rebuild Iraq. Consequently, the military, with no police authority, did nothing to stop the widespread looting following the fall of Baghdad. That early looting also included robbing weapons caches of the Hussein regime.That was only the beginning.

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Under the auspices of Paul Bremer, the Iraqi military was dismantled, and all Ba’athists were purged from the government. This left thousands of highly trained professional and military personnel unemployed and disgruntled. That move was largely instrumental in the origins of the current insurgency. By 2006, Americans were hardly seen as liberators, but rather as an occupying force.

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This film doesn’t delve into the current troop surge, or any of the current debates surrounding the war. It doesn’t need to. It graphically illustrates how we got into this mess. From the outset, the Bush administration mishandled the reconstruction of Iraq with recklessness, arrogance, and incompetence. The beauty of No End in Sight is the way in which it deftly pursues that history relentlessly, but with chilling objectivity.

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No End in Sight won the Special Jury prize for Best Documentary at this year’s Sundance Film Festival. Expect it to be in the running for an Oscar this year. It is, without doubt, the most relevant documentary about the Iraq War thus far. No End in Sight is now playing in select theatres in New York and Washington, DC, and will be playing across the country later in August. A DVD release is tentatively scheduled for 30 October.

Two Spheres of Rock

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Books about rock music, and especially about the sordid histories of rock musicians, tend to leave me cold. Books, no matter how hard they try, can’t capture the primal urgency of the music. Recently, I’ve come across a couple of books, however, that make me think that perhaps I’ve been reading the wrong books. That being said, I still suggest you crank up the respective music described to achieve maximum impact.

Part graphic novel, part biography, part shooting script and part fanzine tribute, Gorillaz: Rise of the Ogre is a lavish book detailing the origins of the world’s first virtual rock band. Depending on your point of view, Gorillaz are either the animated creation of Damon Albarn of the band Blur and Tank Girl illustrator Jamie Hewlett, or an actual band from the backstreets of cyberspace. Rise of the Ogre makes a convincing case for the latter theory.

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It’s not even a matter of suspending disbelief. All one need do is allow the premise that cyberspace is another dimension of reality with which we’re only recently communicating, due to our tinkering with computers. If we accept that idea, then the entire Gorillaz phenomenon takes on an entirely new complexion. Through their music, we get glimpses of the slightly different plane in which they dwell. And since they do exist in a reality that’s a tiny bit out of synch with our limited perceptions, we see them almost as cartoon characters, and hear their music as something comfortingly familiar, yet ominously alien. It may sound far-fetched at first, but consider this: cartoon characters don’t produce debut albums that skyrocket to #1 in record time, as Gorillaz did in 2001 (about the time the Internet changed the face of communication.) Coincidence?—I don’t think so.

Rise of the Ogre traces the origins of Gorillaz, beginning with the birth of bassist/mastermind Murdoc Niccals, and following him through his formative years of low-paying jobs and failed bands. It chronicles his fateful first encounters with Stuart Pot, who would become known as 2D, the band’s singer and sometime keyboardist. Guitarist Noodle had herself shipped FedEx from Japan to join the band, after answering an ad in NME. She was voted one of Teen People’s “25 Hottest Stars Under 25” in 2006 - no small feat for a “cartoon” character. Drummer Russell Hobbs, a native of Brooklyn, New York, was a veteran of street wars when he joined Gorillaz, and has been known on more than one occasion to serve as the group’s unofficial protector.

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The book can’t be dismissed as a promotional tool for another self-serving rock group. Rise of the Ogre pulls no punches as it chronicles the numerous rises, falls and resurrections of Gorillaz, all brilliantly illustrated with archival “photos” that show the band at their best - and worst. Interviews with such notables as Neneh Cherry, Dennis Hopper and Ike Turner add a dimension of credibility to the proceedings.

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While Rise of the Ogre may be best taken with several grains of salt, it is no more audacious than Strange Brew: Eric Clapton & the British Blues Invasion 1965-1970. In order to fully appreciate this 350 page tome, you have to first accept its core premise that British Blues can be traced to Eric Clapton’s stint with John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers. That’s certainly debatable, but author Christopher Hjort is undaunted in his pursuit of that thesis. What results is an exhaustive, and often exhausting chronology of British Blues as it played out on a daily basis between 1965-1970.

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Eric Clapton, as the title would suggest, is the central player here, but he is by no means the only character. It begins with Clapton leaving the Yardbirds at the age of 20, and joining Mayall’s struggling Bluesbreakers, wherein he became the darling of the burgeoning blues scene. But it goes beyond Clapton as catalyst, and illustrates the parallels between his career and those of Peter Green (who would co-found Fleetwood Mac) and Mick Taylor (who would go on to transform the sound of the Rolling Stones). Other parallel careers spring from there, as the degrees of separation narrow to include the early days of Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page.

Strange Brew utilizes every newspaper clipping, every magazine notice, every handbill, in fact, any and everything it can pull out of the hat to give a sense of urgency to the British blues boom. It succeeds largely because it literally takes those five years and breaks them down to a daily chronology. That’s also its shortcoming.

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It’s not a book to read cover-to-cover, unless you’re obsessive-compulsive, or a rabid rock historian. There’s a lot of information here, and finding analogies between Jethro Tull and the Bluesbreakers is certainly admirable, but the wealth of info can become tiresome. On the other hand, Strange Brew is a great book to merely pick up and open to any given page. Either way, you’ll know more than you ever thought you wanted to know about the British Blues Invasion.

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It gets down to this: Rock and roll is a sentient being, constantly evolving and living with its own heartbeat. Its histories are woven of legend, and cannot be tied to a singular version of reality. Whether we’re detailing the history of British blues, as in Strange Brew, or whether we’re glimpsing into an alternate universe, as with Rise of the Ogre, is largely irrelevant. What’s important is that the music is so integral to our self-image that we feel compelled to archive it.

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And that's where the reality really sets in forever.

Gossip Fodder in Steve McQueen's Ashes

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You can’t really define “cool” with words — attempting to do so just isn’t ... cool. But we all know cool when we encounter it. Jack Nicholson is cool. So were Miles Davis and Frank Sinatra. Mustangs are cool — or at least, they used to be. Steve McQueen proved how cool a Mustang can be in 1968 when he starred alongside one in Bullitt. Car chases were redefined, and Dodge Chargers never completely recovered. But I can tell you this: had Steve McQueen been behind the wheel of a Charger, rather than the Mustang, automotive design might look much different today.

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Now, that’s cool. And Steve McQueen defined it with just a look or a phrase. Even now, nearly 27 years after his death, he still does. Throughout his too-short career, he was an enigma whose on-screen persona rarely strayed far from the actual man, even though he was often at odds with himself, and those around him, as a result. Perhaps because he was so guarded, nobody’s ever produced a truly definitive biography about him.

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Unfortunately, Steve McQueen: an American Rebel does little to change that. Loosely based on Marshall Tirell’s 1993 book, Richard Martin’s documentary chronicles McQueen’s life fairly accurately, but rarely delves beyond the superficial. In fact, it more often than not comes across as a personal reminiscence by Martin, who introduces the film by emphasizing that he and McQueen were “drinking buddies” back in the day. The day in question was the late 1950s, when they were hustling work in New York City. That would have made a good introduction had Martin used that as a basis for his credibility for making the documentary. The problem is, he doesn’t let the good old days go. Instead, he threads his own life into some sort of parallel of McQueen’s.

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To be honest, I’d never heard of Richard Martin before viewing this documentary. Truth is, he’s had a less than illustrious career in the film industry. Yet, he persists in peppering the film with trivia about himself, letting us know that while McQueen was making such and such film, he was abroad, scouting locations or securing funds for some since-forgotten movie. It’s as if he’s screaming “I coulda been a contender!”

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Martin’s personal insecurities aside, An American Rebel is entertaining in a fluffy kind of way. We already knew that McQueen was a Hollywood bad boy, but this film only skims the underlying motivations behind the persona. His father deserted him and his alcoholic mother when he was a baby, he had run-ins with the law as a kid, he always had problems with authority — all of that’s common knowledge to any fan. It would have been nice to see something beyond the Hollywood hype about him — interviews with people who knew him, footage other than movie clips — anything that would have shed light on Steve McQueen the man.

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There are some tidbits scattered among all this. For instance, McQueen turned down a role in the original Ocean’s 11 when Hedda Hopper advised him, “Do you want to be a movie star, or a Frank Sinatra flunky?” A prior engagement saved him from being a victim when Charlie Manson’s guys went on their murder rampage, an incident that prompted him to carry a loaded handgun at all times thereafter.

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Steve McQueen: an American Rebel is full of interesting anecdotes about the man and his career. Sadly, the film lacks a cohesive focus, so all of the information is scatter-gunned about the landscape of the documentary. For those of us who grew up with the man who starred in Bullitt, The Thomas Crown Affair, The Sand Pebbles, and Nevada Smith, among others, it’s not going to offer many new insights. But as a primer for a generation who may only vaguely know of Steve McQueen, it's a good introduction to what cool means.

Armageddon in Black and White

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The one thing that looms large in our collective consciousness is the prospect of Armageddon. Some twisted nerve in our psyches has a need to dwell on the unthinkable, and it’s probably because we just have to know how it all ends. Fail Safe takes that premise to one terrifyingly possible conclusion.

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The premise, originally presented in the 1962 novel by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler, hinges not on troop movements but on the fallibility of our engineering arrogance. Sidney Lumet’s 1964 Playhouse 90 adaptation of Fail Safe remains a classic drama of cold war tensions. Like Dr. Strangelove (also released in 1964), Fail Safe postulated mutually assured destruction as the result not of war, but of diplomatic wranglings and mechanical failures. A computer malfunction prompts a U.S. bomber squadron to think they have orders to attack Moscow with nuclear weapons. Because of precautionary procedures, the order is irreversible. The crew’s training preempts them from accepting radio transmissions, as they would most likely be Russian decoys. As the planes race resolutely to accomplish their mission, it’s left to diplomacy to ward off global catastrophe.

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The 2000 version of Fail Safe is no less powerful than its earlier incarnations. Executive produced by George Clooney, it aired live and in black and white on CBS 9 April 2000. Even with Walter Cronkite noting in his introduction that it was the first attempt by CBS in 39 years to telecast a drama live, this is hardly an exercise in nostalgia. Granted, the Soviet Union no longer exists, and we like to believe that we’ve put the possibility of mutually assured destruction behind us. As this teleplay eloquently illustrates, however, the spectre of global holocaust still looms before us, regardless of how the players and the tactics have changed.

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Played as a live performance, Fail Safe has a sense of immediacy that a theatrical film would be hard pressed to replicate. Working within the parameters of what is essentially a stage play, the mostly male cast deliver performances that inexorably draw the viewer into the tensions the characters face. Richard Dreyfuss as the President and Harvey Keitel as the battle hardened but war weary General Black are particularly noteworthy in their pivotal roles. Sam Elliot and Brian Dennehy are also impressive as the gung ho congressman and the cocky desktop general who see their sense of wonder unravel as the East and West careen deeper into the nuclear nightmare. George Clooney, as the supremely dedicated pilot Col. Grady, in whose hands the fate of the civilized world rests, turns in a brilliantly understated performance.

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Fail Safe is much more than a daring experiment in live television, though. The fact that the actors were working without a net, as it were, heightens the tension of the telecast in that the format didn’t allow for second takes. Stephen Frears, better known as a film director whose credits include The Grifters and The Queen, proves his prowess in the live medium here, despite a couple of insignificant glitches. But the real power of Fail Safe is in its ability to convey the very real threat of humankind’s inability to harness the forces it unleashes. In that regard, it’s as timeless as the story of Prometheus. It warns us that in our hands, the world will end not in a roar, but in a sadly whining whimper.

My Wayward Ways of the Past Week

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Wow! It really does appear I've been remiss in posting-- another bored blogging casualty who gave up the cyberghost. Actually, I've been busy. Most of my activities over the past week are relatively inconsequential, unless you consider flooding of Biblical proportions important. I have to tell you, though--it's not as bad as the news networks would have you believe. A good camera angle can make anything look disastrous, especially when placed next to a raging creek.

But I've kept busy. I'm doing a weekly column for Blogcritics you might want to check out. It's all about the weekly new DVD releases. You know I wouldn't steer you wrong.

Just thought I'd let you know. I worry that much about you losing sleep.

An Unwritten Future And a Past Not Forgotten

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Truth to tell, I only recently realized how a brief encounter with Joe Strummer over 25 years ago completely reshaped my approach to writing. It was 1981, and the Clash were lined up to be the cover story for the inaugural issue of my magazine, Pulse: Tomorrow’s Trends Today. Their concert at the now defunct, but still lamented Bronco Bowl was nothing short of phenomenal, my photographer had gotten some great shots, and all that was left to do was the backstage interview with Joe Strummer.I wasn’t a stranger to rock journalism, and I’d certainly done more than a few interviews at this point. But Strummer, for whatever reason, was utterly uncooperative. Maybe he was tired, perhaps he was taking his fresh Mohawk too seriously, or it could have been he knew punk was over and he wanted to ride it out on one last wave of bravado. It doesn’t matter.

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But the interview was going nowhere. No matter what I asked him, he’d just say, “You tell me.” Finally, after several minutes of that, he looked at me and snarled, “You yanks don’t know anything about rock and roll.” I was flabbergasted and enraged. “Excuse me,” I blurted, “We invented rock and roll. You Brits are just borrowing it.”There was a moment of tension as backstage jaws dropped, waiting for the next volley. Strummer just grinned, took a swig of beer, shook my hand and walked away. To make a long story short, I still got my story, the Clash were still my cover feature and l learned a valuable lesson about journalism, especially rock journalism. And that was never, ever be intimidated by your subject. Had it not been for Joe Strummer, I might have gone through life blissfully unaware of the importance of stripping away masks in the course of an interview.

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With Strummer, that was easier said than done. Joe Strummer wore a lot of masks, and it’s only now, nearly five years after his untimely death, that we’re beginning to understand the real man behind them. The Future is Unwritten, the soundtrack from Julian Temple’s Strummer biopic of the same name, offers a bit of insight into the man. From 1999-2002, he hosted his own radio program on the BBC World Service, where he had free reign over the music he played. This album takes that radio format, couples it with interview snippets and rare tracks, and ultimately offers a snapshot of the dying days of the 20th century.“Joe, we’re going to have your name on the screen,” a disembodied voice asks as the album opens. “Is there anything you’d like us to write under it—Mescalaro, Clash, anything. .?”

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“I’d like you to write ‘punk rock warlord,” he replies, “with ‘warlord’ being one word.” And from there, he launches into an a cappella rendition of “White Riot.” It’s a worthy nod to the meaning of punk, stripped of everything but rage. It’s only fitting that “White Riot” is followed by Rashid Taha’s Arabic update of “Rock the Casbah.” Not one of the Clash’s best songs, it nonetheless illustrates how keenly aware the band was of global politics. It was a work of satire, made all the more poignant when sung in Arabic and presented as a mixtape.

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The Future Is Unwritten isn’t about rehashing the Clash, though. It’s more of a musical memoir that details Strummer’s influences and loves, and the impact they had on the evolution of the Clash and his later projects. Some of those influences are obvious. MC5’s 1968 recording of “Kick out the Jams” is a seminal proto punk piece that laid the groundwork for the entire punk movement. But the Clash, particularly Strummer. were never content to merely ride the punk wave. Early on, they strayed from the constraints of punk, and redefined it as a genre. As their frontman, Strummer led the band into areas that, at the time, prompted some hardcore punks to accuse the band of selling out.

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Nothing, in fact, could have been further from the truth. By embracing unlikely idioms and incorporating them into the Clash sound, Strummer exemplified the punk dictum of “the first rule is there are no rules.” Strummer’s work with his pre-Clash band the 101ers had already shown his predisposition to roots rock, as illustrated here with their 1976 recording of “Keys to Your Heart.” Strummer acknowledges a debt to Elvis Presley as he introduces the Kings “Crawfish,” and exhibits a profound understanding of American message music as he spins Tim Hardin’s “Black Sheep Boy.”

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What makes The Future Is Unwritten a beautiful album is the way in which it segues from one genre to another, intertwining the Clash, Strummer’s later music ventures and the influences that permeated his music and shaped his path. Woody Guthrie, Nina Simone, U-Roy and Bob Dylan all resided in Strummer’s thoughts. The 25 tracks on this album, punctuated by comments from Strummer, offer a glimpse into the way the man’s mind worked.

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Joe Strummer was a complex man, and he could often be infuriating. I think he rather enjoyed being perceived as an enigma. But upon listening to this album, it’s apparent that Strummer was a sum much greater than the parts he shared with us. This album shines a much needed sliver of light on his unforgettable legacy.