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Showing posts from July, 2020

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 29: Freeway

In Ecuador, the bus companies pamper their clients. A steward will walk down the aisle and give each traveler a packet of crackers and a cupful of lukewarm sodapop. Then he’ll put on a movie. If it’s a long trip, he’ll put on two or three movies.

These are the most popular genres:
  • Vietnam POW rescue movies
  • martial arts movies (featuring Jackie Chan, if I’m lucky)
  • horror movies (Gremlins and My Bloody Valentine are the best ones I’ve seen on the bus)
  • cop movies
  • gangster movies
Speed has been shown on the bus many, many times.

On one trip, the steward began to play Grease. It took all of five minutes for the passengers to start clamoring for him to turn off that porquería (or maybe they used a stronger word). Which he did.

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Freeway is hands-down the best movie I’ve seen on the bus. The other passengers with whom I saw it loved it, too. They laughed. They cheered. The only passenger who disliked Freeway was my mother.

I can understand why she didn’t like it. Some viewers would be put off by the disturbing illustrations that go along with the opening titles (they show a hungry wolf chasing after teenaged girls). Distasteful, also, are the scenes of sexual molestation, prostitution, drug use, pornography use, prison violence, and murder; the constant swearing; and the lurid, simplistic plot, lifted from the story of Little Red Riding Hood. All of this is played for laughs.

Somehow, the passengers on the route between Santo Domingo and Quito weren’t offended by those things.

Freeway satirizes people’s fascination with depravity. To accomplish this, it goes all-in on the depravity. It stacks the deck against the heroine, laughing at her; then it laughs along with her as she turns the tables against her privileged enemies, exposing their hypocrisy.

As I recall, the bus riders laughed hardest at a scene near the end. The heroine poses as a hooker and then threatens her john with a gun, forcing him to disrobe and locking him in the trunk of his car.


There are funnier scenes. Some of them are funny at the heroine’s expense. But I think the bus riders got the movie’s main point.

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Vanessa Lutz (Reese Witherspoon) is a teenager of low social standing. Very, very low. She can barely read. Her mother is a prostitute. Her stepfather is a drug addict. Certain plot developments force Vanessa to seek out her grandmother, who lives in a trailer park in Stockton, California (Vanessa lives in San Diego). Vanessa’s car breaks down as soon as she drives onto the freeway. Another motorist (Kiefer Sutherland) pulls over. He drives a black SUV, and his name is Bob Wolverton. Vanessa accepts his offer of a ride. Unfortunately, Bob turns out to be a bad samaritan: he is the “I-5 Killer,” an abductor and murderer of low-class young women.
VANESSA: Are you the guy who’s been killing all them girls on the freeway, Bob? [Bob chuckles.] Why are you killing all them girls, Bob?

BOB: ’Cause I have absolutely reached my -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing limit with people like you, Vanessa.

VANESSA: What kinda people am I supposed to be?

BOB: The alcoholics, the drug addicts, the fathers who -⁠-⁠-⁠- their daughters, the drug-addicted -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing whores with their bastard -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing offspring.

VANESSA: Hey, I ain’t no trick baby!

BOB: We call them garbage people, and I assure you, you are one of them.
Vanessa must survive her initial encounter with the wolf, make her way to her grandmother’s house, and confront the wolf one last time.

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Some versions of the Red Riding Hood tale include a woodsman who may or may not end up saving Red Riding Hood from the wolf. In Freeway, the woodsman is a police detective (Dan Hedaya). He’s the only adult who treats Vanessa with respect. The other adults are oppressive authority figures. Bob Wolverton works as a counselor for troubled youth; he gets his kicks stroking the wounds of children’s souls. His wife is a snobbish harpy (a “Karen” in today’s vernacular). Vanessa also meets prison guards who’d as soon torture as rehabilitate her; family members unconcerned about her wellbeing; and social workers and police who’d wash their hands of her as quickly as possible. The detective’s partner treats her as contemptuously as Bob Wolverton does. The parallel is clear: the others may not be serial killers, but they’re murdering Vanessa in other ways.

Or they would murder her if she weren’t such a badass. Reese Witherspoon exults in the role, gleefully hurtling her enemies’ venom back at them:
Holy -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠! Look who got beaten with the ugly stick! Is that you, Bob? I can’t believe such a teeny weeny little gun made such a big mess out of someone! You are so ugly, Bob! And, hey, I heard you have one of those big -⁠-⁠-⁠- bags that’s like attached to where the -⁠-⁠-⁠- comes out the side. You’re just a big old -⁠-⁠-⁠- bag, ain’t you, Bob! You just think of me every time you empty that -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠ing thing, -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠er! …
Them’s some big ugly -⁠-⁠-⁠-in’ teeth you got, Bob!
But she also shows flashes of pious compassion:
This is a crucial question, Bob. Do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and take him for your personal savior?
And of remorse:
Oh God. God, that was so -⁠-⁠-⁠-⁠in’ bad.
The detective notes that all of Vanessa’s peers hold her in high regard. By the end of the movie, so should the viewer.

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Of course, there’s no holding Bob Wolverton in high regard, but at least Kiefer Sutherland plays him with gusto. He’s respectable-looking, with a sudden leer that recalls the devil (his father, Donald Sutherland, also grinned devilishly in National Lampoon’s Animal House).

There are other fine actors I haven’t named. They must have been attracted to the script of what’s essentially a B-movie. In its acting and writing, Freeway oozes bravado; otherwise, it’s a rather plain production. If anything, that plainness works in its favor.

Tone-wise, the movie isn’t far from the stories of Flannery O’Connor – especially, “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” and “Revelation” (with its parade of freaks and lowlifes on their way to heaven). See also James Thurber’s “The Little Girl and the Wolf.”

This is one of my favorite movies of the year.


P.S. Roger Ebert, in his admiring review, offers this statement of “Ebert’s Law”: A movie is not about what it is about. It is about how it is about it. This is a helpful principle to keep in mind when judging a movie like Freeway. Unfortunately, the review gives away a lot of details, so you might postpone reading it until after you’ve seen the movie.

On who can work for the police these days

Today I watched the mystery series Manhunt (2019), featuring Doc Martin’s sour-faced Martin Clunes.


Look at him.

I decided that British TV insidiously promotes the belief – the ideology – that practically anyone could work as a Detective Inspector.

In the halcyon days, detectives in fiction were either private consultants (Sherlock Holmes; Hercule Poirot) or else amateur busybodies (Father Brown; Lord Peter Wimsey; Jane Marple). It was easy enough to accept their quirks. At least those sleuths weren’t representatives of the state. One could keep one’s imagination untainted by bureaucratic matters.

Now, the bureaucracy is almost the main feature. Viewers have come to understand that sleuthing is only feasibly done by the police. Consequently, almost all of today’s detectives are public servants.

In and of itself, this is realistic. The corollary it generates is anything but.

Now we have a parade of crime shows in which every actor who’s made an impression, irrespective of style, in a soap opera, period drama, or comedy gets a turn as a Detective Chief Inspector or Detective Sergeant. (If the actor really, really looks like a goblin, he or she can only rise as high as Medical Examiner.) Yes, some actors are specialists: Douglas Henshell has played a DI on at least five different crime dramas since 2009. But the prevailing attitude seems to be: “You were a valet or a lady’s maid on Downton Abbey. Go on now, take a turn as a DCI.” I can think of at least four Downton servants, and at least four soap stars from Last Tango in Halifax, who’ve switched to policing.

Brenda Blethyn, who, in the fullness of time, might have played Miss Marple, has long investigated murders on Tyneside. Could one such as her character, Vera Stanhope, become a DCI in real life? Yes. Could all these scene-stealers, cumulatively, be DCIs? That is, could Brenda Blethyn and Martin Clunes and Nicola Walker and Kevin Doyle (Mr. Moleseley of Downton Abbey) all struggle with their demons while ordering the lower ranks to comb through the CCTV footage? The system would fall apart.

One suspects that if John Gielgud were still alive, he’d be playing an embattled, semi-retired Superintendent.

Meanwhile, I await the investigations of DCI Richard Ayoade.

Giving credit to whom it’s due

Because of rainstorms, social engagements, etc., I allowed the lawns to go uncut for two weeks. I mowed yesterday and today. I had to go at a snail’s pace. I used up several tanks of gas.

When I went back into the house tonight, I was exhausted. Karin was feeding Samuel and watching videos of a man unclogging the drains of torrentially flooded streets.

At first, I was impatient. After a while, I decided the videos were amazing.

This man unclogs drains – for free – because that is what he loves to do. He delights in creating whirlpools. He loathes to see motorists driving on the sidewalk; he also must put up with their reckless splashing.

He is a hero.

Moreover, he is a compelling, unpretentious narrator. He could be a teacher or a play-by-play sports announcer. Fortunately for us, what he really enjoys is clearing out drains.


At the end of this video, he tells us that he has to rush off to other flood-prone areas to unclog some more drains.

This man is an excellent human being.

Milestones

Happy first birthday, a couple of days ago, to Ada – my niece, Ana’s & David’s daughter – in Austin, Texas. Several dozen guests in at least four countries held a bilingual party for her over streaming video. The (hired) guests of honor were some llamas who live in Iowa – Ada likes llamas.

I was reminded of this painting by the surrealist Carel Willink:


(Some of my relations are surely rolling their eyes; I showed them this painting right after the party.)

It’s nice that the party was themed according to Ada’s interests.

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My own interests have evolved considerably. I now enjoy watching videos of the Dallas, Texas, High Five Interchange – a network of stacked traffic bridges, the tallest of which reaches as high as a twelve-story building.


I also enjoy fatherhood. Today, Samuel and I played peek-a-boo, and I carried him around on my shoulders. He has been consistently saying Da-da-da and Da-dee the last two or three days. He also has been venturing off his floor mat and getting very dirty.


Samuel received compliments this weekend from my Aunt Ruth’s brother-in-law, who stopped by to leave some things for my parents (he’s about to retire to New Orleans). “You can tell just by looking in a child’s eyes whether he’s being raised well,” he said.

I was glad that Samuel and Karin & I passed that test.

He then congratulated me on having finished my Ph.D. and told me that all of his children (or their spouses) had earned or were earning Ph.D.s. It was like the movie Conte d’été, in which the youths at the beach all have Ph.D.s.

Among the donations were four suitcases of books, which I raided. There were many Shuar grammars and a Shuar New Testament. There also was a Shuar blowgun. I didn’t take any of the Shuar paraphernalia. I did take an old copy of Locke’s Reasonableness of Christianity, which I’d cited in my dissertation.

There also was a tremendous wall hanging of llama wool. The fascination with llamas is certainly a familial one.

July’s poem

… is by A.E. Housman:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(A Shropshire Lad, no. XL)

Poor Liverpool

… tore through the English Premier League this season in pursuit of some amazing feats. Would they join 2003–2004 Arsenal as EPL “invincibles”? Would they repeat as European champions?

They would not.

In the EPL, they lost to Watford.

Then, Atlético de Madrid eliminated them from the Champions League.


Liverpool could have surpassed Manchester City’s EPL points record. But City thumped them as soon as they clinched the title; and today, needing a draw to be able to accumulate 100 points, as City had done two seasons before, Liverpool suffered a lackluster defeat to Arsenal.

I watched on Peacock TV, NBC’s new streaming site, as Liverpool became also-rans in comparison to other champions. The futility was palpable. Jürgen Klopp, Liverpool’s manager, seethed.

This acclaimed team is, ultimately, a less memorable one than the 2015–2016 Leicester team that accumulated just 81 points.

A pleasant Sunday

Excellent weather this weekend. It rained all of Friday, then was cool yesterday and today. It also rained a little this morning. Our church service was moved from the parking lot into the gym, so we boycotted it (or, rather, we self-quarantined at home).

Later, we strolled Samuel around Mishawaka’s riverwalk. He stayed awake until the final minutes.

Karin constantly looked at her phone. “Let’s go stand there, near that part of the river,” she said.

I pointed out that it was near some teenagers who were doing jumps with their skateboards. Karin usually doesn’t like teenagers. When we watched the new comedy Banana Split, Karin said she wouldn’t relive high school for a million dollars.

But this time, she surprised me: “It’s all right. I’m doing battle.”

I was reminded of that famous saying of the Scottish minister Ian MacLaren: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle of Pokémon Go.”

We met our pastor and his wife on the trail. They were out walking with their two-year-old daughter.

“We skipped church because it was held indoors,” I said.

“Probably for the best,” they said. “People came rather close to one another this morning.”

My apologetics textbooks have arrived, and I’m educating myself. I’d never studied the different methodological camps. Presuppositionalism seems like a non-starter. It’s very strange to look at the world, and even at such texts as Saint Paul’s Athenian discourse (Acts 17), through the eyes of an extreme Calvinist.

Hail, hail

Since I last wrote, I’ve had nights as of old, with frequent apneas and hypopneas, causing brutal daytime tiredness. Yesterday, I fell asleep three times. You’d think this would help me to sleep better at night. Alas, at 3:00am I knocked Air Supply off my bedside table, and in setting him upright I jostled his humidifier. Water traveled up the hose and sprayed out all over my side of the bed. Fortunately, Karin didn’t get very wet.

Like I said, this contraption will take some getting used to.

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It surely will interest my readers that italics have been made available for one of the best free typefaces – Source Serif Pro, published by Adobe and inspired by the classic book typeface Fournier.

Certain people have been waiting for these italics since, oh, 2014.

The typeface includes small caps and old-style numerals, as well as Greek and Cyrillic letters. It can be downloaded here.

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T-storms all day tomorrow. Woo hoo!

There was a hailstorm over our neighborhood earlier this week. It seems not to have affected anywhere else. But it occurred, and here is the proof.

A good sleep; July 4; Ennio Morricone; Hail, Caesar!

Thanks to Air Supply, Saturday night’s sleep was the best I’d had in years. I was so well rested that I went around the house doing various tasks as soon as I woke up.

The app awarded me a silver badge.

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Maybe I slept so well because I was worn out. Saturday had been terribly hot. I finished mowing before noon; even so, the heat made me feel faint, and I had to recover on the couch for several hours.

Around the time I finished mowing, I noticed thick, black smoke drifting over from across the street. Fire trucks arrived quickly. Neighbors recorded video. Fortunately, it seems no one was hurt. I can’t say what was damaged: I’m not even sure which building was on fire; it may have been a trash heap, for all I know.

This weekend, also, a notoriously flammable apartment complex in South Bend caught fire. No one was hurt – people occasionally die there – but some tenants lost their possessions.

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Karin & I took Samuel on a stroll around the neighborhood. What with all the firecrackers, it was rather dangerous. Samuel slept through it, though. He also slept after sunset when the explosions were very loud indeed. Karin & I looked out our window at the smoky haze.

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Speaking of “fistfuls of dynamite”:

R.I.P. Ennio Morricone, whose music I listen to every month, if not every week.







And speaking of spaghetti westerns: how about that pasta lasso by Alden Ehrenreich?

Feeding Samuel, I watched Hail, Caesar! in installments. I’d been putting this movie off for years. Well, it was delightful. Two days later, I viewed it again, with Karin, and it was just as good. In a way, it’s easier to appreciate a great director (or two) by watching their fluff than by watching something more substantial (you aren’t distracted by the gravitas).

There are lots of perfect little touches in Hail, Caesar! My favorites involved Ehrenreich, the singing cowboy, whom I’d never seen before. I liked his lassoing. I also liked his enormous plate of beans.

Air Supply

… is what I’ve named my rent-to-own CPAP machine.

I’ve had it since Tuesday morning. Karin took me to the medical supply store and left me in the parking lot with my COVID mask, a lawn chair, and several books (she had to visit her doctor). After forty-five minutes, I went inside and met the technician. I signed paperwork and learned how to use the machine.

“Should I worry about what the cats might do to it?” I asked the technician.

“Keep the hose away from them,” he said. “They might chew holes in it, thinking it’s a snake.”

So, every morning, I’ve been detaching the hose and storing it in the machine’s nifty little briefcase.

The appointment cost $145 (after insurance). The rental will cost $18 per month (after insurance). I’ll become the owner after 13–15 months. So the expense isn’t terrible; I just wish that obtaining the machine hadn’t taken longer than seven months.

The distilled water that goes into the humidifier costs 68¢ per bottle. The filters and masks will eventually need to be replaced.

Sleeping with Air Supply will take getting used to. It’s not uncomfortable as long as the mask isn’t leaking air into my eyes. The mask seems to leak air whenever I roll over. Tightening it in the middle of the night isn’t easy; and when I do, I’m castigated by the app that compiles my “sleep score.” The score also decreases if too much air leaks out.

I’m not sure if the “sleep score” matters. This month, the insurer only requires that I wear the mask four hours each night, seven out of ten nights.

I do seem to be sleeping better. Yesterday, I fell asleep twice watching Samuel – he was asleep, too – but today I’m alert, and I haven’t even had any caffeine.

Even the nights are better
Now that we’re here together
Even the nights are better
Since I’ve found you


… is what I hope to sing.