I'm Not Black. I'm Not White. And Neither Are You.

.

.

These are interesting times—whether living in them is a curse or boon is ultimately going to hinge upon whether we’re willing to shed our tribal instincts and cultural preconceptions in favor of redefining ourselves in a new century.

The American presidential campaign and the requisite coverage of it mirror those preconceptions and fears. Is Obama black enough? Is McCain young enough? Is Clinton woman (or man) enough? You have to take those questions, and their inevitable follow-ups, as rhetorical at best. They’re the political equivalent of a tabloid headline, and do nothing but divert our attention from the issues that are relevant to the future of not only America, but to the entire globe.

I’m not knocking rhetoric—it’s woven into the fabric of American history. From “Give me liberty, or give me death” to “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country” to “I have a dream” to “Yes we can”, well-timed phrases galvanize us to action. But like any power, in the wrong hands, rhetoric becomes insidious, inspiring our basest emotions of fear and hatred. Unwisely used, rhetoric destroys its practitioners and followers.

In the current US presidential campaign, rhetoric has become the bogeyman, cited as the evil destroying legitimate debate, except when those citing it use the very tool they rile against to further their own agendas. It’s always been like that, of course, but in our YouTube universe, the wrong nuance at the wrong instant can be used as leverage against the other side. That’s all well and fine, but eventually we have to step gingerly through the minefields the candidates and the pundits have set before us. We have to decide: do we really want a new future for America, or are we content to wallow in the muck of a failed past?

We in America tout our diversity as our greatest strength, and well we should. It’s also undeniable that we’ve committed some unforgivable errors along the way. No amount of reparations or apologies will erase those stains. And no amount of ancestral outrage is going to advance us further up the evolutionary scale. What will save us, if anything, is a rationed approach to unifying America.

Only one presidential candidate has risen to that challenge. Barack Obama is no stranger to the power of rhetoric, but he is the only presidential candidate who infuses it with an aura of genuine integrity. He’s shown that he’s willing to cross party lines to get results, but he’s also proven that he has the gumption to not back away from a principle in which he believes. Time and again, he’s substantively demonstrated his message of hope is a concrete one that transcends racial, social and all but most the extreme political factions.

This may very well be one the most important presidential elections in American history. The country is poised precariously at a crossroads that may chart its course for generations. The question becomes, will America continue to be a heart in conflict with itself, or will the US return to its roots, and become united once again? We can no longer afford to look at ourselves as black, white, brown or yellow, or define ourselves along ideological lines—we have to once again be the United States of America.

Barack Obama is the candidate most qualified to inspire us to achieve that goal. Agree with him or not on specific issues, he articulates his views in such a way that you have to admire him. More importantly, he leaves his viewpoints open to some degree of internal debate. And that’s something we haven’t seen in a long time.

Dexter Lite

.

.

The writers’ strike is finally over, and the networks find themselves with a glass more than half empty. When CBS announced earlier this month, with much ballyhoo, that they were breaking new ground by airing the first season of the acclaimed Showtime series Dexter, I was less than enthused. The subtle shadings of the series, colored in psychosis, vulgarity, sexual innuendo and dark humor couldn’t translate to a mainstream audience, I reasoned.

I was only half right.

People had heard of Dexter, and were curious about it. They didn’t get Showtime on their cable networks. I frequently received emails from people bemoaning the fact they weren’t subscribed to Showtime, and in my daily life, acquaintances frequently pestered me for recaps about a series they’d never seen. Dexter quickly become a pop icon, sight unseen.

To paraphrase Dexter’s inner monologue, tonight’s the night that it’s going to happen. At 10 PM ET/PT, CBS airs the premiere episode that started it all, with a pledge to broadcast the entire 12 episode first season over the coming weeks. Don’t get too excited, though. As I predicted, the CBS version is heavily edited. This may not bother newcomers to the series overmuch, but longtime devotees may find it overly safe. It’s like skimming a Cliff’s Notes version of a classic, and expecting to ace an exam. It can’t be done.

That being said, the CBS version of Dexter, hobbled as it is, nonetheless manages to limp into a new phase of network programming. It makes unnecessary concessions to a larger audience, such as deleting original opening credits sequence (a macabre masterpiece of satire that sets the tone for each episode), and it clumsily edits the potty mouths of Deb and Doakes (be prepared for an over-abundance of the word “freakin”). Even with those concessions, Dexter emerges as an antihero unlike any other.

Whether all twelve episodes of the first season will actually air on CBS is a matter of debate. In its early days, Dexter episodes were self-contained, with the Ice Truck Killer subplot serving more as a teaser than a plot device. It wasn’t until the third arc that he became an integral part of Dexter’s adventures. The question arises, then, will mainstream viewers follow his killing sprees for more than a few episodes?

I honestly don’t think so. Without the nuances of character, both the good guys and the bad guys, Dexter becomes another silly show with the troubled Cold Case leading it into a Sunday night audience. I really hope Dexter will garnish enough ratings to make the networks rethink their strategies. It would be really cool if Dexter broke down barriers during its CBS tenure. I’d love to see Weeds crossover to the mainstream. But we know that won’t happen. We may be ready for serial killer heroes, but a pot dealing suburban single mom?—that’s really stretching credibility.

It’s a moot point, anyway. Dexter’s pitted against a talking Mustang tonight. Guess who wins that battle.

Jericho: Revenge of the Peanut Gallery

.

.

Jericho: The Return could easily be subtitled “Revenge of the Peanut Gallery.” After diehard fans flooded CBS with thousands of peanuts (by some counts, 40,000 pounds worth) protesting the show’s cancellation, Jericho got a seven episode reprieve. It’s do or die time now for the post-apocalyptic series set in Kansas, and it’s returned as a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

It appears now that the “September” attacks launched against 23 cities and resulting in some 15 million deaths didn’t originate in North Korea and Iran, after all. Nope—it was an inside job plotted by some kind of shadow government in collusion with equally shadowy corporations. And they were so meticulous in their machinations that the dim-witted American public was utterly clueless. Nukes have that effect on people.

What made the first season of Jericho a ratings fiasco was its mom and apple pie version of the apocalypse. The premise of a small town in Kansas cut off from the world, struggling for survival in the face of unimaginable destruction, was never explored in anything resembling reality—or even satire. The kind of uncertainty that was the premise of the series breeds either panic or ennui, but in Jericho, a lets-pull-ourselves-up-by-our-bootstraps speech by Gerald McRaney’s character invariably brought the town together. Admittedly, in the second half of the season, a bit of paranoia was brought into play, mostly in the form of the town’s feud with the neighboring town New Bern, but even that came across more as high school rivalries than survival instincts. Even as they warring factions prepared for their final showdown at the season’s finale, it came across as a crosstown rivalry.

If the first season didn’t hold up to scrutiny, Jericho nonetheless built a small, but dedicated fanbase. Perhaps the campaign to save the show was based on economics, or maybe they just didn’t know that peanuts are more akin to beans than nuts. Either way, they’re unlikely to notice that the amped up, albeit abbreviated, Season Two takes the series more deeply into the valley of the lowest common denominator.

Where Season One focused on survival, however naively, Jericho now claims to focus on rebuilding and reconstruction. Taking its cues from everything to the American Civil War to the war in Iraq, with a little bit of the American Revolution thrown in for luck, the series now goes for a play at relevance to current events. It ends up being a series of clichés we’ve seen too many times before. Even more sadly, any “statements” it makes come off more as comic book morality than three-dimensional realism. Things take an ominous turn to be sure, but they presuppose that Baghdad and Jericho are interchangeable.

What was America is splintered into three different regions—west of the ‘blue line” (defined as the Mississippi River), the newly formed Allied States of America, based in Cheyenne, Wyoming has set up a decidedly right of center government, replete with revisionist history, an appointed president and a drive for a constitutional convention designed to redefine inalienable rights. East of the Mississippi is the tattered remains of the United States, now headquartered somewhere in Ohio. Which side will win apparently depends on an alliance with the reformed Republic of Texas. For reasons that may have logic in a parallel universe, Jericho becomes the focal point in the struggle for America.

To be sure, there are any number of allegorical allusions the series could have touched upon with such a setup. The show’s producers failed to hit on any of them. In a rush to either put the dog to sleep or keep it on life support. They’ve opted for the latter, crueler option. Rather than actually tackling the issues they’ve set themselves up to confront, they’ve fallen back on the future as Old West cliché, thrown in the inevitable Big Brother on a big screen TV, thrown in a renegade secret agent and a sympathetic military commander, dashed in equal parts conspiracy and romance, and tossed it to the viewer like so many table scraps.

The days of Jericho are numbered. Hokey romance and daft conspiracies can only fuel the imagination so much. Having seen three of the seven episodes, I see very little hope for either a satisfactory conclusion, or a promiseof a third season.

Then again, I hate peanuts.

The Origins of Horatio Hornblower

.

.

Horatio Hornblower is the penultimate icon of romantic naval fiction. That may or may not mean a lot to you, until you pause to consider that without Hornblower, there would probably never have been a Captain Kirk or a Jean-Luc Picard. Gene Roddenberry originally pitched Star Trek as “Horatio Hornblower in space.” It’s hardly surprising, then, that the deep space battles of Star Trek often resembled 19th century naval strategies.

That Horatio Hornblower evokes that kind of reverence 70 years after C.S. Forester first introduced the character to the world is testament to our inherent need for heroes. I’m not talking typical celluloid action, either—Hornblower embodies virtue, duty and courage—even when it means personal cost to him.

It’s no surprise that the adventures of Hornblower have been immortalized in film—first by Gregory Peck in 1951, in the film Captain Horatio Hornblower. But it was the A&E/ITV series of eight television movies aired 1998-2002, however, that indelibly stamped the character of Hornblower into the public consciousness. All eight movies are gathered in the Horatio Hornblower Collector’s Edition, which I recently reviewed. As I said then, the movies paint a rich tapestry of Hornblower’s career and times, but individually, they stand on their own as swashbuckling adventures.

“The Duel” (as it was known on A&E, or “The Even Chance”, on ITV) introduces a very young Hornblower. It’s 1793, and amidst uncertain times in Europe, a 17-year old midshipman Hornblower (Ioan Gruffudd) reports for duty aboard the harbored battleship Justinian. It’s hardly an auspicious entrance. Barely aboard, he’s looked upon by his mates with varying amounts of amusement and distrust, and then suffers a severe bout of seasickness. Young Hornblower, despite all that, remains quietly resolute to succeed as a seaman, and resultantly earns the grudging admiration of his fellow midshipmen. This, of course, makes him the target for the bullying senior midshipman, Jack Simpson (Dorian Healy), and sets in motion a series of events that parallel principles of honor and treachery.

Simpson, used to ruling through intimidation and force, rightly sees the intellectually superior Hornblower as a threat to his domination over the Justinian’s crew. His tactics don’t work on Hornblower, however, who silently endures Simpson. It’s a matter of honor, after all, and even a beating by Simpson doesn’t deter him from his principles. It does, however, earn him a stay on the riggings for refusing to incriminate Simpson. It’s only when Simpson accuses him of cheating at cards that Hornblower finally challenges the bully to a duel.

It’s at this point that Hornblower’s mettle is first tested, even though he’s denied the chance to prove it on his own terms. His friend Clayton, himself a victim of Simpson’s, coldcocks Hornblower and serves as his second in the duel, with tragic results. While there is no satisfaction for Hornblower, it sets him further on his ethical compass.

His mettle is tested once again as war breaks out with France, and he, along with several of the Justinian’s crew, are transferred to the Indefatigable, commanded by Sir Edward Pellew (Robert Lindsay.) Pellew is part seafarer, part iconoclast and part father figure. At their initial meeting, he makes it abundantly clear to Hornblower that he’ll brook no lack of discipline aboard his ship, nor will he tolerate vanities, such as duels, that may cost him needed manpower in a time of war.

From the outset, though, it’s readily apparent that Pellew sees a potential in Hornblower that the midshipman himself had kept submerged. Pellew charges Hornblower with whipping the unruly seamen of the Justinian into shape, and it’s not long before they prove themselves in battle. Hornblower remains steadfast, at least superficially, but is not above a bit of chicanery when it comes to strategy.

The ghosts of the past emerge once again, once Hornblower’s crew rescue fellow sailors after a battle with the French. As fate would have it, Hornblower’s nemesis, Simpson, is among the survivors. Time has by no means tempered him—if anything, he’s more sadistically evil and than sociopathic than he was before. The showdown between the orderly Hornblower and the chaotic Simpson becomes inevitable. On the grander stage, their feud becomes an allegory for the battle between civilization and barbarism, with unexpected results.

The Duel is a worthy introduction to Horatio Hornblower. What makes Hornblower such an endearing character is his unwavering devotion to his personal ethics, even when they supercede protocol. His devotion to God and King is inestimable, but he’s not above bending the rules of gentlemen when situations call for it. He goes through hell, and emerges stronger for it. In short, he’s the everyman hero that every generation embraces. The Duel is a preview of how heroes are made.

Welcome to the Captain. Don't Check Your Bag Just Yet.

.

.

If nothing else, the writers’ strike has proven that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. It’s also borne witness to the truism that when empires are crumbling—in this case, the omnipotent studios and their producer lackeys—they’ll resort to bread and circuses to placate the populace. That’s why we’ve been treated to such high-minded entertainment as American Gladiators, a retread of a late-night nineties syndicated series elevated to cultural revolution by the presence of Hulk Hogan and the PR machine of the almighty Peacock. Testosterone and spandex sells, baby!

It’s also why we’re getting “new” episodes of series that have been languishing in purgatory for the past three months. In actuality, they’re episodes shot before the writers’ rebellion, which the studio empire shelved in case of a prolonged strike. Even that hasn’t weakened the writers’ resolve, fueled by Starbuck’s lattes as they are. That leaves the studios and producers with their last line of defense—they’re left with the final option. They’re pulling out the second stringers that didn’t make the cut last May, and promoting them as “brilliant.”

Welcome to the Captain is a case in point. The good news is that it’s replacing (at least for now) Big Bang Theory, one of the most ill-conceived shows about nerds in recent memory. The bad news is that Welcome to the Captain is an ill-conceived show about the tragically hip, blissfully languishing in their faded glories. The residents of El Capitan, who inexplicably call it the Captain, are mostly broadly drawn Hollywood has-beens and wannabes. There’s Saul (Jeffrey Tambor, Arrested Development), who prefers to be called “Uncle Saul”, who’s been living there for 26 years, and loves to remind anybody who’ll listen that he was a writer on Three’s Company, or as he calls it, “3-Co.” Along with the Captain’s doorman, Jesus (Al Madrigal)--yes, pronounced biblically—he’s the self-appointed gossipy leader of the community. Then there’s Astrid (Valerie Azlynn), the obligatory blonde bimbo with stars in her eyes who prefaces most nouns with an ‘s’. Of the oddball supporting characters, a remarkably preserved Raquel Welch stands out as Charlene Van Ark, a seasoned seductress who once starred in a seventies prime time soap.

It takes a certain amount of genius, or at least chutzpah, to make quirky characters in a rooming house environment work. Fawlty Towers pulled it off by virtue of absurdity, and did so brilliantly. Welcome to the Captain stops short of going over the top, and puts the absurdity on the back burner in favor of romance. The show centers on Josh Flug (Fran Kranz), who had won an Oscar for best short film years back, but is suffering from writer’s block. The Hollywood lifestyle isn’t helping, either. He’s a New Yorker, and he’s not adapting to the West Coast very well. But at the urging of his best friend (and accountant to the stars) Marty Tanner (Chris Klein), agrees to make a last stand by moving into the Captain. After the set-up encounters with the oddballs, he meets, and falls for, the aptly named Hope (Joanna Garcia), a not very good acupuncturist whom he sees as his soulmate.

What ensues are the requisite boy chases girl themes that are a mainstay of sitcoms from Dobie Gillis to Friends. And that’s the problem with Welcome to the Captain. It’s not that it’s a bad show—there are moments in it that are genuinely funny. But it teeters between the absurd and the romantic, and never finds a focus between the two. Written and directed by John Hamburg (Meet the Parents), it attempts to balance the edgy vitality of premium cable programs with perceived middle class values.

The second episode, which airs Monday 11 February, does venture a bit m Welcome to the Captain doesn’t look to be a post writers’ strike salvation. ore into the absurd, and offers a glimmer of hope for the series. It’s too early to predict its demise, but

Dexter and the Writers' Strike Revisited

.

.

Dexter has made the transition from the premium cable ghetto to traditional network TV. Beginning 17 February, CBS will add the exploits of the vigilante serial killer to its primetime lineup. Actually, the Big Eye will be offering an “edited” version of the critically acclaimed first season of Dexter.

As someone who’s been writing about Dexter since its premiere way back in September 2006, I suppose I should be excited. At the very least, I should feel vindicated. After all, I’ve been extolling the virtues of a loveable psychopath for the past eighteen months. That Dexter has finally made its way out of the cable ghetto should make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

But it doesn’t. And here’s why.

In the first place, I don’t want to see Dexter co-opted to make it more palatable to a mainstream audience. Admittedly, CBS tends to push the envelope with series like Criminal Minds and even CSI in its finer moments. Even at that, they ultimately end up being procedural dramas, with the white hats winning over the black hats in the end.

Dexter’s approach has always been more complex. It puts the viewer into the killer’s mind, and even makes us feel a certain empathy for him. The supporting characters are complex, and frequently profane. It is a show intended for adults. I doubt the nuances in it are going to translate well to network television. That’s not what causes me concern, though. What bothers me is the fact that Dexter most likely would not be making the transition from premium cable to network were it not for the writers’ strike. Here’s what CBS President of Entertainment Nina Tassler had to say about the network picking up the series:

We’re excited to work with our corporate cousins at Showtime on this unique programming opportunity. Dexter is a high-quality, compelling series that will be new and original programming for most CBS viewers. It’s also a great match with our existing line-up, affording us the opportunity to promote this critically decorated series in CBS’ top-rated crime dramas.
And Showtime’s President of Entertainment, Robert Greenblatt, added this:
We're thrilled to have the chance to expose Dexter to a wider audience on CBS. I think it will be very compatible with their line-up as well as be a great opportunity to promote our brand on a platform that reaches every home in America.

As lofty as all that sounds, it’s actually a classic exercise in doublespeak. The truth of the matter is the networks are pulling every little trick they have to squash the writers’ strike. I hinted at this outcome in November, when I first guessed that the networks had lost their vision, and that cable TV might offer the best hope for meaningful television. I didn’t realize at that time — though I should have — that the corporate types would simply cannibalize their own programs, and present them as fresh and daring.Here’s the thing — the writers are still getting screwed. It doesn’t matter if the Director’s Guild has reached a tentative agreement with the producers. Nobody knows the details of that agreement. Supposedly, it’s something the producers (AMPTA) and the directors DGA) can sleep with, and that’s all well and fine.There’s a problem in that line of reasoning, though. What’s good for directors is not necessarily good for writers. Film has traditionally been the province of directors, visual medium that it is. But what people forget sometimes is that none of those magnificent images — from Scorcese, Spielberg, Scott, whomever — would not exist had it not been for a scribe typing “FADE IN” to make the project take wing.And that’s why I’m almost, but not quite, offended by the eminent debut of Dexter on network TV. On the one hand, I’m delighted that Dexter, however abbreviated, is finally reaching the audience it always deserved. Dexter has always been one of the most original, and most daring series ever produced in America. On the other, a diluted, censored version of the series can’t convey its impact. Much of what makes Dexter so engaging are the complexities of the characters. Once those are censored for network viewing, the series loses much of what makes it great.

And therein lies the rub. The producers are counting on the idea that consumers will obligingly march to a sea of mediocrity, as evidenced by Deal Or No Deal, and shows of that ilk. They may be right. Viewers, in the producers’ view, are lemmings who have no idea what they want until it’s spoon fed to them. A game of chance, or a so-called reality show, will trump a well-written drama or comedy anytime. NBC, especially, is counting on that strategy. They, and the other networks, sweeten up the pot, of course, by pulling out unaired episodes already produced before the strike, and tout them as “brand new” episodes

So that puts us back at square one. The well will go dry soon, and both sides appear to be resolute in their contentions. As much as I love Dexter, Weeds, Entourage and a few other cable offerings, I don’t see them as the producers’ salvation. Their edgy moments simply won’t translate well in a censored, edited version.

I hope I’m wrong, but I seldom am. Maybe it’s the populist in me, but I believe the audiences for those series want to be challenged. By the same token, I don’t think the average network viewer, kickin’ back on a Sunday night with the family, will take kindly to a series with a serial killer protagonist.Maybe I’m too jaded. Perhaps the producers will finally realize their success hinges upon the betrodden writers, and there will be joyous celebrations, replete with flowers and dancing with wild abandon.

Naahh. Bean counters can’t dance.

How the Ramones Changed the World

.

.

Tracing the roots of punk rock is a popular pastime among rock critics and genealogists. The usual proto-punk suspects—MC5, the Seeds, Iggy and the Stooges, Patti Smith—are invariably cited. I could go on, but it would be fruitless. We’d end up breaking it down to my favorite obscure garage band when I was a kid, and you’d counter with these guys you knew who were smoking everyone at the time—at least on your block. And finally, we’d have to grudgingly admit to each other that that wasn’t really punk, but it sure as hell influenced it. And we’d both be right, no matter how we knew in our individual heart of hearts that you were wrong and I was right, or vice versa.

None of it really matters. Punk is one of those languages that have existed since our prehistoric ancestors first banged sticks on skulls. It’s the stuff of anarchy, sure, but it’s a tribal anarchy that only found sputtered voices here and there through the years—a stuttered lyric here, a buzzsaw chord there—before those voices opted to pursue loftier ambitions. If not that, the anger consumed them, and they left this world too soon. That’s how rock and roll tosses the dice.

Still, there has to be that one moment where something coalesces, and it can be defined, as anti-punk as that may sound. It happened in 1974 in Queens, New York, and it was called the Ramones. Once Jeffrey Hymans, John Cummings, Douglas Colvin and Thomas Erdelyi transformed into Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee and Tommy Ramone, they unwittingly transformed rock and roll forever. They put rock back into its adolescent roots—Joey couldn’t play drums and sing at the same time, Dee Dee couldn’t play bass and sing at the same time, and Tommy, who was the band’s manager, had to resort to doubling as the band’s drummer once nobody who auditioned for the gig could get the chops down the way the band wanted. Joey ended up being the singer, Dee Dee stuck to playing bass and Johnny continued to play guitar.

That’s how the revolution began. At a time when rock had become bloated and complacent to the point it couldn’t even recognize itself, the Ramones performed an intervention. Playing loud, fast and hard, they bitch slapped the rock establishment from its somnambulistic stupor. The Ramones: It’s Alive 1974-1996 documents the evolution—if you can call it that—from their earliest shows at CBGB in 1974 to one of their last stadium performances, at the River Plate Stadium in Argentina. In those 22 years, they never veered from rock’s primal instinct. They kept it short, they kept it simple and somehow, they kept it relevant. And in all those years, nothing really changed about the Ramones. There were minor personnel changes—Tommy relinquished the drums to Marky in 1978, followed briefly by Richie, while Marky went through rehab before returning to the band in 1987. CJ replaced Dee Dee on bass in 1989, even though the latter continued to contribute songs until the band’s dissolution in 1996.

The Ramones never scored a top 40 hit in America, although they fared a bit better in the British charts. Their legend lies rooted in their live performances—all 2263 of them. It’s Alive highlights some of their more noteworthy (and notorious) performances. Think of them as snapshots in a scrapbook—you won’t find any complete concerts on this package. That’s not a bad thing, either. Ramones concerts were short, particularly in the early days, when they rarely lasted more than thirty minutes. What you do get here are sketches that offer a perspective of the band that a polished documentary could never provide. There are nuggets here—band members arguing between songs, ancient Super-8 videos of their earliest CBGB performances, an extended clip of the legendary 1977 Rainbow concert in London. There are also embarrassing moments—slickly produced TV appearances on Top of the Pops, Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, even a cameo on the short-lived Sha Naa Naa variety TV series.

At over four hours in length, It’s Alive lives up to its billing as “the ultimate double live DVD.” There is no narration of any sort—only performances separated by simple title cards to give a reference point. The one truth that emerges as a result is the Ramones were the first—and I mean the first punk band. When they played London’s Roundhouse 4 July 1976, they fired the shot heard ‘round the world, and ignited the British punk movement, inspiring future members of the Sex Pistols and the Clash. And all through their career, the Ramones kept the spirit of punk alive. It’s Alive appropriately honors the Ramones through its minimalistic approach. It’s presented in 5.1 Dolby, with a 2.0 Stereo option. Extra features are kept to a minimum, consisting of interview snippets, “rare” videos and various filler flotsam.

Mostly, though, it’s about the music that, no matter how you spin it, altered the face of pop culture forever. Joey, Johnny and Dee Dee have passed on. Tommy is more or less gone, too, though he’s resurrected himself as bluegrass artist Uncle Buck. It’s Alive reminds us that rock was never meant to be pompous or bloated. It was, and is, the voice of the malcontent in all of us. The Ramones weren’t looking for a revolution-- they just wanted relief from the ennui that the rock establishment had come to worship. It’s Alive shows how the Ramones shook that temple to its foundations.

Horatio Hornblower: A Hero for All Seasons

.

.

Like every generation before us, we think we live in perilous times. And like every generation before us, we’re probably right. Social animals, after all, do tend to fight amongst themselves. What separated we humans from other mammals was our need to justify our actions. Thus, we devised words like “loyalty”, “duty”, “courage” and “justice” to reconcile our primordial needs. For centuries, it more or less worked. We knew if we went into battle risking limb and life, we were right, and the other side was wrong.

We’ve grown jaded in the twenty-first century. Somewhere along the way, we’ve lost sight of honor, loyalty, duty, and most importantly, civility. That’s why the release of Horatio Hornblower Collector’s Edition is an important, if largely unheralded, addition to a comprehensive DVD library. It’s a sweeping epic that’s a reminder of the unyielding power of steadfast ethics.

Drawing their inspiration from C.S. Forester’s novels, A&E’s Horatio Hornblower series of made-for television movies ran 1998-2003 on the cable network. (It ran in Britain on ITV, and was simply called Hornblower.) This DVD collection packages all eight movies together in one set. Together, they chronicle the unlikely rise of Horatio Hornblower from midshipman to commander during the early days of the Napoleonic Wars. It’s romantic high seas adventure on a grand scale, lavishly produced, unrivaled in movies made for television broadcast.

By virtue of visuals alone, Horatio Hornblower is an amazing work. Meticulous attention was paid to every detail of the production. From hairstyles to locations to the magnificent full-scale ships integral to the saga, the movies are imbued with a air of authenticity rarely seen in modern productions. There are no computer generated effects here, as there were in recent theatrical films such as Master and Commander. Rather, director Andrew Grieve and producer Andrew Benson eschewed such effects in favor of location shooting and full-sized ships wherever possible, even filming much of the series aboard the ships. Even the battle sequences where actual ships could not be practically utilized, were shot using exquisitely detailed miniatures at Pinewood Studios.

Of course, beautiful visuals mean little if not coupled with a gripping story and powerful performances. The Hornblower movies exquisitely deliver on both counts. The eight films chronicle the trials and triumphs of Hornblower as he rises through the ranks of the British Royal Navy without resorting to miniseries tactics. Each “episode” (lasting about 100 minutes) stands alone as a complete story independent of the other films. While it’s not necessary to see them in chronological order—or any, order, for that matter—they work together to paint an engaging portrait of a man resolute in his personal ethics against all odds. They’re not preachy by any means, but instead weave their themes within the stories in the tradition of classic filmmaking. Ioan Gruffudd (Fantastic Four) portrays Hornblower with a perfect blend mannerly reserve and swashbuckling abandon.In his recurring role as Hornblower’s mentor, Captain Pellew, Robert Lindsay (Wimbledon) delivers an outstanding performance as a gruff but tender father figure who quietly charts Hornblower’s career. In fact, there are no weak performances in the series. Supporting actors play their roles with a vigor born of love for the content.

Besides the 800 minute running time of the adventures, this DVD collection offers a wealth of bonus features, including:

· Exclusive interview with Ioan Gruffudd

· Filmmaker Commentary on Loyalty and Duty.

· 3 Bonus Programs: England's Royal Warships, Sail 2000: Aboard the Eagle, and The Making of Horatio Hornblower

· About C.S. Forester

· Nautical Terms and Definitions

· Interactive 3D Naval Cannon

· Guide to Royal Warships

· C.S. Forester Biography

· Cast and Crew Biographies

· Photo Gallery

· Interactive Menus; Scene Selection


The story of Horatio Hornblower is too rich to cover adequately in one review. I’ll be looking at the individual movies in depth over the coming weeks. In the meantime, I recommend the entire series as a rarity—an uplifting saga of valor suitable for family viewing. It never panders to any particular demographic, but instead opts to present a hero for all seasons.

Three Books for the Musically Obsessed

.

.

As I write this, it looks as if we’ve survived 2007 after all. I’m not talking about the obvious calamities and uncertainties that we endured throughout the year. Those are the little demons that have beset humankind from the get go. What I’m breathing a sigh of relief over is that we’re finally done with the endless parade of mindless TV specials commemorating the 40th anniversary of the so-called “Summer of Love.” With almost no variation, all these specials looked at the time through rose-colored glasses, and focused on a generation who danced with wild abandon through turbulent times, but were destined to change the world. Not surprisingly, they were by and large made by baby boomers. Even less surprisingly, they were mostly bollocks.

Those of us who grew up in the sixties will tell you it was all about the music. We’d been raised on rock and roll—at least the do-wop and milquetoast soul of American Bandstand at the time. The Beatles changed all that. I was a little kid when I saw them on Ed Sullivan, but some primordial force was awakened within me—I had to have that mop top. And I absolutely had to get a guitar.

My misspent youth aside, the sixties was the decade in which rock music came of age. It was the time when the stentorian voice of youth was unleashed in full, the echoes of which still reverberate today. Sure, the voice has been assimilated into mainstream mores from luxury car commercials to presidential campaigns, but the grumblings and rumblings bubble just beneath the azure calm. The media has changed, but the message has remained the same after all these years.

Three books have recently come across my desk that serve, with varying degrees of success, as snapshots of key moments that helped to transform rock and roll from a teen novelty to an integral aspect of our cultural landscape. The dispatches come from various geographic points from London to Los Angeles to upstate New York, and the viewpoints expressed are equally far-flung. The one commonality between them is they’re written by people whose love of the medium is readily apparent.

To fully appreciate Dominic Priore’s Riot On Sunset Strip, you have to accept the premise that it was Los Angeles, not San Francisco, that spawned the Californian movement that has become a cornerstone of modern music. He makes a compelling case here. As much social commentary as it is music history, Riot examines the brief moments between 1965-66 when LA’s Sunset Strip redefined pop culture before being effectively being shut down by the cops, who were taking their cues from conservative business owners. Priore recreates the climate of the times, and traces how the scene along a 1½ mile strip of Los Angeles real estate transformed the pop culture landscape forever. The Strip was the breeding ground for the Doors, Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, Buffalo Springfield and numerous other bands whose influence is still being felt today. It was also a hub for art and fashion, and influenced a generation of filmmakers. Riot details it all in exquisite detail, lavishly illustrated with period photos. Priore’s style is almost breezy, yet incisive. For those interested in the evolution of pop culture, this is a must-read.

Million Dollar Bash, Sid Griffin’s exhaustive (and exhausting) study of the recording of Bob Dylan’s almost mythical The Basement Tapes, is not for the casual reader. While recovering from a motorcycle accident in 1967, Dylan holed up with a number of friends (most of which would later become the Band) to informally record what some consider his best body of work. Ironically, Dylan initially did not release the songs. Instead, they emerged as covers by the likes of Manfred Mann (“The Mighty Quinn”) and Brian Auger, Julie Driscoll and the Trinity (“This Wheel’s On Fire”). There have been numerous bootlegs of the tapes released over the years, but the only official version is the 1975 “The Basement Tapes,” released by Columbia in 1975. Griffin approaches the recordings with the wide eyes of a fan.
As a result, much of the book is based on speculation, breaking down individual songs into who played what, and when and how. The problem with this kind of attention is that the finished product often gets lost in the shuffle. It’s the kind of stuff that music geeks love, but it adds precious little to the Bob Dylan opus.

In Can’t Buy Me Love: The Beatles, Britain and America, author Jonathan Gould deftly traverses the rugged terrain that lies between the borders of pop culture, journalism, fan enthusiasm and music criticism. No matte how revisionists try to deny it, the Beatles had the single most important impact on popular culture in the twentieth century. In this book, Gould dissects the influence of the Beatles while examining how the sociopolitical upheavals of the time shaped their own musical evolution. This is by no means just another Beatles biography, although it does delineate finer points of their career that are often overlooked. The Beatles themselves, with the exception of John Lennon, were mostly unaware of how they were altering the face of rock and roll. What Gould has done here is not write a book about the Beatles per se, but instead has offered a chronicle of the sixties with the Beatles as the centerpiece. As a result, he presents perhaps the most comprehensive, enjoyable read concerning the Fab Four ever written. More importantly, Gould’s book illustrates how events influence our thought processes, and how we turn to idols to make sense of it all. This isn’t just a good book—it should be required reading for anybody interested in the influence of the sixties, and how we perceive ourselves now.

From the journalistic to the fannish to the scholarly, these three books are prime examples of rock journalism. Even at their worst, they’re leaps and bounds superior to the reviews I too frequently see passing as “criticism.” Power chords don’t hold much weight I the scheme of things. Lasting music does.

When Hearts of Darkness Collide

.

.

As promised, the second season of Dexter ended with an explosive finale. Not to put to put too fine a point on it, but that’s actually how the final episode began. From the moment Doakes discovered Dexter was the Bay City Butcher, the plotline took an even more ominous tone than the rest of the season had already established. What followed was a collision course among the characters, from which no single victor would emerge unscathed.

Before I go any further, here’s the obligatory SPOILER ALERT. Even though it’s been over a week since the finale premiered on Showtime, what follows reveals key details to the finale’s outcome.

From the outset, the second season of Dexter traveled a darker path than its predecessor. Once treasure-hunting divers inadvertently stumbled upon his underwater dumping ground in Episode One, the series shifted from playful mayhem to an almost surreal tragic epic as told from the killer’s desperate perspective. The supporting characters roles, from Doakes’ dogged pursuit of Dexter, to Lila’s demented devotion to him, to Deb’s quest for love, to Rita’s torn loyalties—all served to advance the notion that Dexter is the dark personage that lives in our universal heart.

The genius of Dexter lies in its unerring ability to force us to drop our disguises. Even though the series largely plays it with a wink and a nod, it conceptualizes our primordial desire for justice. More importantly, it recognizes the more important need for survival. And that’s really what this season was all about: Dexter coming to grips with that dichotomy. The first rule of Harry’s Code was to not get caught while meting out vigilante retribution, and it became Dexter’s mantra once the task force began closing in on the Bay Harbor Butcher. The problem with that strategy was that it found him in a crisis of conscience through most of the season, grappling with his own motives while covering his tracks.

In the end, Doakes and Lila serve as the links to Dexter’s past and his path to the future. Locked in a cage while Dexter decides to deal with the man who has happened upon the truth about him, Doakes eventually becomes Dexter’s confessor. He almost convinces Dexter to turn himself in, until Dexter experiences an epiphany while having dinner with Deb. The dinner’s cut short when Deb receives a phone call that the task force is closing in on Doakes’s location. Dexter races back to he remote cabin where Doakes is held prisoner, realizing he must release Doakes before the Feds find him, lest his plan to frame Doakes for the killings goes seriously awry.

Oddly, it’s Lila, in her delusion that she’s Dexter’s soulmate, who first finds Doakes imprisoned in the cabin. Once Doakes tells her who Dexter really is, and offers the body parts in garbage bags as evidence, she does what any sociopath with a tendency towards pyromania would do, and blows him, and the cabin, to smithereens. As they pick body parts out of the water, it’s obvious to the Task Force that Doakes was indeed the killer, and the case is closed. Only Dexter knows the truth, and he decides, in his topsy turvy logic, that he must honor Doakes’s memory by killing his killer.

Lila has always represented Dexter’s dark side—that Dark Passenger who can justify anything if it serves a purpose. Unlike Dexter, though, she was never panged by matters of conscience—or logic. In a way, she became the lynchpin of the entire season as a result. For a fleeting moment, it even appeared that Dexter might spare her. But when she torched a building with Rita’s kids inside, her fate was sealed. Dexter tracked her down to Paris, where he killed her, with unusual respect, for Dexter, anyway.

It seems like a tidy ending, but it leaves a number of chilling questions. Both Doakes and Lila had their own dark secrets, presumably left to speculation now that they’re both out of the equation. The most chilling premise has to be the teaser for the next season. Dexter, in his mind at least, has come to grips with his identity. “Am I a good person doing bad things, or a bad person doing good things? I’m done asking myself those questions. . .”