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CINEMA SEEN - "Dearly and Not So Dearly 'Departed'" By William Margold The confluence of a coming, and way too many goings, collide here for what is an extremely reflective Cinema Seen page that richly exemplifies the pleasures (and pressures) of creating of this weekly column, and the privilege of having the entire back page platform to present it on---that I have been given by THE LAXPRESS. That the artwork displayed on this page has been extracted from "Bad Fellas"---which is what I’ve labeled director Martin Scorsese’s wearying attempt to stuff 1000 pounds of potatoes into a one pound bag---THE DEPARTED (Warner Bros.) is remarkably fitting, as death is inevitable, plays no favorites, and yet continually, and paradoxically, manages to be uplifting in the fact that we, as survivors, have long, and in some cases, VERY LONG, buried memories rekindled, which can be unashamedly warmed by the tears that flow down our cheeks, as those images from the past are re-illuminated. However, on a sardonic note, my immediate response to the tragic events surrounding the death of New York Yankee pitcher Cory Lidle (detailed further by XPRESS sports writer Joey Alkes in this issue), was "oh well, that frees up a spot on the roster for next season." My life, which has extended into its 63rd year, has been influenced by many, many, MANY different personalities, and in the span of one week, one of them: Caryl Chessman, surfaced as the topic of a new book ("When You Read This, They Will Have Killed Me" by Alan Bisbort), and two of them: Ralph Story and Buck O’Neil, were featured in the Obituary section. Easily the earliest example of my championing the under dog, and quite frankly, not really being all that aware of "the facts of the matter"---in 1957, I took to writing to Chessman, who was known as the "Red Light Bandit" while he was on death row at San Quentin. This created quite a stir at Vista Del Mar, an upscale home for problematic children of the Jewish faith in Culver City (where I lived from 1956-1960), when I started getting responses from Caryl’s priest. Called on the carpet of the home’s director, a fearsome fellow named Joseph Bonaparte, I was queried as to "what would possess you to write to a criminal?" I remember answering something like "because I don’t believe that he is SO guilty that he must be executed." That response, plus the fact that I had been caught with a transistor radio listening to the New York Yankees play the Milwaukee Braves during a High Holidays service (my joy over Yankee shortstop Tony Kubek hitting two homeruns was apparently too excessive in such somber surroundings), were more than enough justification for me to be banished to gardening details until the palms of my hands began to look like an old wallet. For the record, Chessman was executed on May 2, 1960, an occurrence that was transmitted over radio into my 12th grade English class at Alexander Hamilton High School. Listening to the radio was my primary source of morning entertainment back in the early 1950’s, before I would walk the few blocks west on Santa Monica Blvd. to McKinley Grammar School from the apartment that my mother and I lived in next to The William Tell Motel on 26th Street. And my first recollection of a radio personality came through the euphonic intonations of a fellow appropriately named Ralph Story. His ability to welcome the new day was so comforting, that I could close my eyes, while laboring over my bowl of oatmeal ('it’ll keep you regular" was one of mother’s indelible pronouncements) glistening with a small amount of brown sugar, and see him with a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and holding the microphone in the other. Many years later, he would fittingly create a mesmerizing series for KCET (Public Broadcasting) called "Things That Aren’t Here Anymore"---and in the process rendered Los Angeles’ past into a collection of golden-edged postcards for the soul---and for my solace---as I had frequented many of the now-extinct locations as a child. A few years ago, sensing that with the blurring of sexual images and actions into one another, the Adult Entertainment Industry was being placed on the precipice of being absorbed into the "mainstream" world, I began to relate to the world of XXX, as "The Negro Baseball Leagues." And with the passing (in 2004) of X’s first great Historian, my "cosmic brother" Jim Holliday, I, with humility and honor, assumed the role of "paying homage to the past"---choosing to call myself the "Practorian"---because I speak, and recollect, from having played the "sinematic" game on virtually type of field. My counterpart from deep within the world of black baseball was a perpetually joyful, nonstop goodwill storyteller named Buck O’Neal. Thankfully, through Ken Burns’ masterwork "Baseball" (that was shown on KCET), Mr. O’Neil, and his times, were immortalized. It would truly be grand if Ken Burns turned his talents toward the letter of alphabet (X) about which I could, with confidence and compassion, assume the role of the recently "departed" Mr. O’Neil. And speaking (if for no other reason, than this page is called "Cinema Seen") of "Departed" which really isn’t a very good movie, despite the scenery-inhaling, and most likely Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination worthy turn by Jack Nicholson), I must admit to be so truly uninvolved, and finally exasperated with the thug muggery storyline, that the film’s trio of leads: Leonardo DiCaprio, Matt Damon and Mark Wahlberg---all began to morph into one remarkably bland lump of mashed potatoes---with only the slightest amount of sanguine-hued gravy to sporadically jolt my senses back from the "departed" world of almost nodding off. end NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, October 19, 2006, issue. |