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Showing posts with the label Bradbury (Ray)

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 97: Casper

… “the first feature film to have a fully computer-generated … character in a leading role,” according to the IMDb.

Indeed, when ghostly young Casper is granted a few hours of re-embodiment, his human portrayer is less winsome than the computer-generated spirit. This is less a mark of human failure than of technical virtuosity.

Along with Casper, there are three other principal ghosts: “Fatso,” “Stretch,” and “Stinkie,” Casper’s loutish uncles. Physically, they’re overgrown soap bubbles. They’re corporeal, but just barely. You can see them – and see through them. If you touch them, they dissipate. (No harm is done; they easily re-form.) Fat or thin, they’re rounded: there’s little angularity, and no severity, in their faces.


The uncles are malicious but jovial. Casper himself would be cuddly were he more than minimally solid. Such is his plight: he can love, but he can’t be embraced by his beloved.

The movie is a child-friendly version of the classic story of a romantic encounter between a human and a god (an angel, a sprite, a space alien, etc.). The themes are inaccessibility and yearning.


The girl is played by 1990s “child scare-queen” Christina Ricci (The Addams Family; Sleepy Hollow). Casper sees her and falls in love. (That’s also how I felt about her in the mid-nineties.) Ricci is Kat, the daughter of Dr. Harvey (Bill Pullman), a psychologist who specializes in therapy for the dead – or, as he calls them, the “living impaired.” He explains that ghosts are people who fail to fully “cross over” because of “unresolved issues.” Dr. Harvey has an unresolved issue of his own, which is that his wife’s death has left him griefstricken and dialed up his eccentricity to eleven. He drags Kat across the country so that he can talk to ghosts and track down his wife’s spirit.

Dr. Harvey and Kat end up in Maine, in the run-down, Gothic dwelling of Casper and his uncles, at the behest of treasure-hunters played by Eric Idle (Monty Python) and Cathy Moriarty (most famous as Robert De Niro’s chilly wife in Raging Bull). Idle and Moriarty are involved in the movie’s funniest scenes, some of which also benefit from cameos by Saturday Night Live icons – a conceit repeated by director Brad Silberling in his Land of the Lost (2009).

For example:


The uncles like to frighten people. Casper tries to befriend people. The effect is the same: the living flee in terror. Until the Harveys arrive, that is. They weather the initial storm. Soon, Casper is cooking Kat’s breakfast, and the uncles are taking a shine to the Doctor – so much so, in fact, that they plot for him to die so that he can join their posse.

Kat, meanwhile, is grateful for Casper’s attention, although she’d rather be with the local flesh-and-blood heart-throb (cue Carrie references). Will Casper win her over? In the spirit of Ray Bradbury, yes and no. Carefully attend to Casper’s re-embodiment scene. It becomes clear that Kat would accept him only under conditions that he couldn’t permanently satisfy; and, perhaps, rightly so. The movie is bittersweet.

It also has more swearing and gross-out humor than your average children’s movie. (Again, see Silberling’s Land of the Lost, which, wisely, targets an older audience.) Casper’s plight might be at the movie’s center, but the tone is set by those hedonistic vulgarians, the uncles. Which is just as well: the core is perhaps too sad.

I liked the set design best of all. The run-down mansion is exquisite. There are lots of visual references to old movies – to Oz, especially. Afterward, I wanted to watch Casper again, to see how many references I could count; Land of the Lost, too.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 73: Angela

Ray Bradbury wrote a story, “The Miracles of Jamie,” about a boy with a sick mother, who believes that he has the power to heal: indeed, that he’s the second coming of Christ. I thought of it as I was watching Angela; and yet there’s a crucial difference between these stories.

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Down by the bay
Where the watermelons grow
Back to my home
I dare not go
For if I do
My mother will say
Did you ever see a _____ (goose kissing a moose)/⁠(fly wearing a tie)/⁠(etc.)
Down by the bay

Six-year-old Ellie sings this during the opening credits. Perhaps she’s subconsciously thinking of her unwell mother (Anna Thomson – the scarred prostitute in Unforgiven) who alternates between despair and mania. But Ellie could just as easily be singing about Angie, her ten-year-old sister and de facto mother. Angie, too, is perturbed. She has visions of Lucifer, who supposedly lives in the cellar and intends to drag one of the family away with him. To stave him off, Angie and Ellie wander around their town and its environs, performing rituals of purification.

Their father neglects them. He is busy caring for their mother. Not a believer himself, he takes the family to church, hoping that it will have a calming effect. Instead, church provides Angie with the materials for building an alternate reality.

Dread suffuses this movie. Ellie re-enacts one of Angie’s rituals and sets a curtain on fire. Later, she and Angie drift toward menacing strangers: a sleepwalker, and a pedophile prowling a fairground. Angie is convinced that these people are angels. Amusingly, this belief is not unprotective. The pedophile is about to harm the girls when Angie’s religious fervor frightens him away. Angie attends a baptismal service. The baptizer, played by the ghoulish Vincent Gallo, dunks Angie in the river three times. Do it again, she insists. This is too much, even for Gallo.

Angie creates her own symbols, and the movie employs symbols I don’t understand. The girls find a white stallion in a field and lead him through the town. They visit a mechanic’s shop where all the workers are named Frank. Their babysitter suddenly goes into labor; Angie delivers the child. Angie and Ellie visit another family with many children. It’s announced that the cow is about to calve. The other children drop everything and leave to watch – but not Angie and Ellie, for whom birthing is old hat. Much of this is quietly funny. There’s dread, but there’s gentle humor, too. Even Lucifer, pale, handsome, and forlorn, is amusing, because he’s in his skivvies.

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A review of the Criterion DVD says:
The commentary track … works much like a crossword puzzle’s answer key: It gives everything away, effectively ending the interesting part of the puzzle, but it’s still nice to know it’s available to provide closure. The 1995 debut feature of writer-director Rebecca Miller … is more enigmatic and open to interpretation than a crossword puzzle, however, and her decision to clearly lay out all the answers is a little surprising.
Miller is interesting. I enjoyed her performance in Carroll Ballard’s Wind. I’ve not seen Personal Velocity, her most famous directorial effort, but I’ve seen The Ballad of Jack & Rose, in which an isolated girl insists on maintaining a very unconventional life for herself and her sick father.

Angie and Ellie are socially, if not spatially, isolated because their family has to keep moving (the mother keeps getting into trouble). The children may sporadically attend church and pick up some religious ideas, but no one checks whether they’re orthodox; for example, Angie never learns that one baptism suffices. The consequences of not grasping this point are disastrous. (Incidentally, my church held a baptism this morning, and our pastor explained what our church teaches about that practice. It was very clear. The Devil wasn’t mentioned. Curiously, he is mentioned in baptismal scenes in movies, like this one. I don’t know if any actual Christian baptismal tradition refers to the Devil.)

I doubt Miller is trying to say much about orthodoxy, but she certainly cares about making one’s belief system, and one’s way of life, authentically one’s own. The most obtuse adult in Angela is the father. Responsible and genial, he effaces himself to support his family. As a corollary, he placates his daughters and wife without taking them seriously; he ends up breaking promises and exploding in frustration. (Yet it’s hard to see what else he might have done.) His wife, an expressive type who used to perform onstage, may be breaking down, but she’s determined not to go a way that isn’t hers. Slender, sad-faced Thomson gives the movie’s best performance; is she supposed to recall Marilyn Monroe, who was married to Miller’s father, the playwright, Arthur? (I hope this rather crude speculation isn’t downright disrespectful.)


As for the children, Angie seems to be authentically following a vocation, however confusedly: saving her family from Lucifer. It involves real anguish. She fears someone must be sacrificed, and she struggles to accept that she might have to surrender herself; this is where the story differs from Bradbury’s. Finally, Ellie is the person for whom the sacrifice is made; the movie begins and ends with her.


Have a blessed Easter.

Another treadmill

Some church friends who no longer run indoors have given us their old, ornery treadmill. The motor has a mind of its own. It goes faster than I instruct it to do. Yesterday, I had to keep reducing the speed until the display said I was running ten-minute miles; but surely I was going much faster, and when I dismounted, I was so tired I almost collapsed. I have no such trouble when I exercise out of doors.

Still, I’m glad to have this contraption. What with Halloween, Thanksgiving, our COVID quarantine, and the cold, November was the first month since July of 2020 in which I gained rather than lost weight.

Some days, I’m within 15 lbs. of my final target. At least, I think I’m within 15 lbs.; like the treadmill’s display, our scales are inaccurate, probably because the floorboards in this house are not evenly laid out. Each day I must take different readings until I get the same reading several times. Never before, in my personal experience, has the mode of any series of measurements been a more useful average than the median or the mean. Live long enough, and everything happens to you at least once.

Never been overweight? Just wait. Never been overweight and then lost that weight? Just wait.

In the seventh or eighth grade, I wrote a story about a thin man who drinks some delicious chicken noodle soup, decides that his life has been lacking, turns into a glutton, and becomes hugely and famously fat. At the apex of his fame (and size), he stops liking chicken noodle soup. He ends up thinner than before. I was reading a lot of Ray Bradbury when I wrote this story.

Spotify has compiled the statistics of my usage in 2021. I listen to Spotify more hours than 97% of all subscribers. Money well spent. I listen to Vangelis more than all but 0.05% of Vangelis’s listeners. Vangelis is whom I often choose for Samuel’s napping-time.

Birthdays; visitors; dinners; autumn; Ray Bradbury; hyphens

Happy birthday to Karin! She looks about to burst, but the doctors say she could remain pregnant for three more weeks.

Tonight’s dinner was provided by Karin’s mom and grandpa.

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Happy birthday, also, to our sister-in-law Ana, who has flown up from Texas with Ada, our new niece.

Karin & I saw them yesterday, and then we were all fed by our Aunt Lorena & Uncle John.

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Not many leaves have fallen, but the weather is unambiguously autumnal.

I remarked that this is Ray Bradbury Month.

Mary: “What? You’re going to name your child Ray Bradbury?”

John-Paul: “No.”

When a nosy person asks what our child’s name will be – as Karin’s mom did, again, tonight – I say, “His name will be John-Paul-Karin.”

Awake

It’s three-something a.m., the fourth night of a painful cold. I’ve switched from bedroom to livingroom because I don’t want my coughing to wake up Karin. The twerps, Ziva and Jasper – who’d been sleeping peacefully, obeying the human timetable – now wrestle at the fringes of my blanket and compete for my attention.

It’s distressful to be awake at this hour, but sleeping is worse. Asleep, I can’t stop thinking about tedious details of Spanish grammar. Awake, my mood is OK. I remind myself that I’m married now and that being sick and married is immeasurably better than being sick and single, which was how it was for me in grad school.

Lately, at the high school where I work (and from which I’ll be taking tomorrow off), certain English teachers have been assigning Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder.” In that story the carelessness of one man leads to the disastrous, apocalyptic election of a ruthless president named Deutscher.

People are taking this Trump business very hard.

Trump’s actions so far have not been to my liking. But I refuse to give in to despair. I’ll continue to think kindly of Trump, if only by dwelling on how lousy the opposing candidates were. For example, they did nothing to check the lie that America is great. Trump at least acknowledged the falsehood of that belief with his slogan “Make America Great Again.”

What? Trump the most honest of the field? Doesn’t the sheer frequency of his lying disqualify him from that?

It doesn’t. The other day, I read this passage by Mark Twain that puts the idea rather well:
When whole races and peoples conspire to propagate gigantic mute lies in the interest of tyrannies and shams, why should we care anything about the trifling lies told by individuals? Why should we try to make it appear that abstention from lying is a virtue? Why should we want to beguile ourselves in that way? Why should we without shame help the nation lie, and then be ashamed to do a little lying on our own account? Why shouldn’t we be honest and honorable, and lie every time we get a chance? That is to say, why shouldn’t we be consistent, and either lie all the time or not at all? Why should we help the nation lie the whole day long and then object to telling one little individual private lie in our own interest to go to bed on? Just for the refreshment of it, I mean, and to take the rancid taste out of our mouth.