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The really good news is, according to Amazon.com, if I buy Barbara’s DVD (a production of ABC News) and the three-disc edition of The Maltese Falcon at the same time, I can save almost $10 off my total purchase!

JOE DANTE'S BIRTHDAY PARTY

(The following post is a belated entry in Tim Lucas's Joe Dante Blog-a-Thon, in celebration of the director's 60th birthday, which was yesterday, November 28, 2006.)

In the world of Joe Dante, I started in 1981 with The Howling (1981) and worked backwards. Fortunately, for me, there were only two other Joe Dante movies to catch up with at the time, Hollywood Boulevard (1976) and Piranha (1978), and consequently so many more than two to enjoy in the subsequent 25 years. But catch up with those two rogue Dantes I did in the next year, an assignment lasting precisely 174 minutes in toto, and I thoroughly enjoyed every last one of them.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I first became aware of Joe Dante about a week or so before I first saw The Howling, on a double feature with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre that played at a now-defunct drive-in on the north end of Eugene, Oregon. The drive-in was lined all around with big pine trees, which gave the lot a distinct impression of being nestled much further away from the outskirts of town than it actually was, its secluded forestry fostering an illusion of isolation that was perfect for heightening the fear factor of both movies. Just a few days before the movie opened here, I happened to catch Dante and make-up wizard Rob Bottin on a segment of Tom Snyder’s Tomorrow program, and I was tickled by the cheek of these upstarts, who had managed to get the jump on John Landis’ more highly touted An American Werewolf in London, which would bow later that summer. They were delighting in Bottin’s revolutionary real-time werewolf transformation effects, which, for my money, far outstrip Rick Baker’s work for Landis in terms of shock and awe value, as well as in homegrown, low-budget grue-tinged surrealism. (For all its over-the-top gore, there’s nothing in American Werewolf quite as shocking as the moment when Robert Picardo picks a slug out of his skull cap just before undergoing Bottin’s presto-change-o, or the Big Bad Wolf silhouetted against those backlit blinds as he prepares to do in Dante regular Belinda Belaski.) And while they were digging getting Snyder to dig on their version of the oft-told werewolf tale, you could tell that, even though they weren’t actively putting down Landis’s film, they thought they’d done more interesting work too, and they couldn’t believe their good fortune in being able to promote it to the public ahead of time.

Both being graduates of the Roger Corman Film Finishing School, this was probably the first time either one had ever had such an opportunity. Hell, it was practically the first time either of them even had anything like a budget to work with. And despite Dante and actors Dee Wallace Stone and Picardo pointing out the movie’s deficiencies, budgetary or otherwise, on The Howling’s terrific DVD, it’s a movie that feels like a step away from its low-budget roots, and also a delirious reveling in them and what the director learned from his experiences. Amazingly, though he’s been involved in 12 features and many TV segments since then, this quality of youthful exuberance, as Tim Lucas rightly describes it, is a hallmark of Dante’s work. Of course, Dante also fills his frames with terrific jokes, perverse, often subversive subtexts, and off-kilter compositions-- there’s a certain Mad magazine/EC Comics influence at work here too, as well as an aesthetic allegiance to the work of the Warner Brothers cartoon stable, which juices his movies with energy and inspiration. Yet despite his being taken under the Amblin’ Entertainment umbrella, where he was ostensibly being groomed in the image of Steven Spielberg, he’s really had only one major hit in his 30-year career as a director—Amblin’s Gremlins, which many took as a none-too-subtle deconstruction of Spielberg’s Close Encounters-E.T. sensibility.

One of the best things about Gremlins (certainly my least favorite of his movies) is the simple fact that it kept Dante working throughout the ‘80s and into the ‘90s. He kicked the ‘90s off, however, with Gremlins 2: The New Batch, which would stand for 13 years as the most delirious and inspired live-action approximation of the Warner Brothers universe yet realized (until a certain other movie came along in 2003). Unfortunately, the movie was a flop at the box office, and consequently Dante would see only two more features released theatrically in the decade. (There were two TV movies and three excursions into episodic TV as well.)

Disagreements with the studio and the screenwriter marred Dante’s most recent big release, Looney Tunes: Back In Action. But despite its underwhelming performance with ticket buyers (and Dante’s own disappointment, often expressed in interviews when the subject of the movie comes up), there are those of us who find the movie exhilarating, exhausting and hilarious, a perfect crystallization and expansion of the Warner Brothers universe and its stable of characters. (My daughter, three years old at the time, went with me on opening night, and we saw the movie two more times together before it closed its very short theatrical run. We have, however, stopped counting how times we’ve spun the DVD…)


I love Joe Dante movies far more, I’m afraid, than this entry in Tim Lucas’s Joe Dante Blog-a-Thon, in honor of Dante’s 60th birthday (Tuesday, November 28, 2006), can ever possibly convey. Circumstances and time have conspired to keep me from devoting as much time as might like to the diversity of comic styles or the rich political and cultural subtexts running amuck through his work—for further investigation here, there is no one more erudite on the subject than Jonathan Rosenbaum. And I didn’t end up with enough time to write about the Dante movie freshest in my mind either, his snappy, loose-limbed update of the A.I.P. drive-in classic Runaway Daughters, which the director did for Showtime in 1994.But I do have time for one pretty good Joe Dante story, one which I’ve told before (so please forgive me if one or two of the times were on this blog), one which capsulizes the outside-the-lines appeal and approach that I find so captivating and exciting about Dante’s movies. Somewhere around Halloween 1988, I talked my best friend, Bruce, into accompanying me to a lecture at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences. (I didn’t really have to talk too hard.) The speaker, director Joe Dante, would be hosting an informal discussion of horror movies, fielding questions about the genre (and, presumably, his own work within it), and showing lots and lots of clips on the Academy’s spectacular big screen. I don’t really recall much of what went on that night, apart from spotting Leonard Maltin in the audience, but I certainly do recall nervously approaching the microphone to ask Dante a question about Explorers-- he confirmed my suspicions that it was a movie very close to his heart. I remember also that there were a lot of clips, some of them skirting the borders of “horror” and spilling over into suspense, science fiction and even action-adventure, and Dante’s enthusiasm for each and every one of them was palpable, contagious—we left the auditorium that night wanting to go home and rent or see everything he’d talked about, even the stuff we’d already seen a thousand times.

The highlight of the lecture, however, came when Dante completely broke format and began talking at length about Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Here was a movie that certainly did not fit into the outline of Dante’s program, yet Bruce and I, and the rest of the audience too, were enjoying immensely watching this director build up a head of steam over a movie that seemed so unlike his own. (Of course, Dante would reference Leone directly in The ‘Burbs and Small Soldiers, movies yet to come, and it shouldn’t have been too surprising that someone with Dante’s encyclopedic knowledge of film and film culture would have an appreciation for the great Italian director.) Finally, Dante admitted, “I know that The Good, the Bad and the Ugly doesn’t have anything to do with tonight’s stated theme—horror movies—but I just thought that it would be a shame to get the use of this big, beautiful screen and not take full advantage of it. So without further ado, here’s the climactic graveyard scene from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly!” The curtain went up, and we all watched Tuco’s long run around the perimeter of that grand, circular cemetery, accompanied at top volume by Ennio Morricone’s blaring, brilliant score. Talk about a hard act to follow, and Dante admitted as much even as he flung headlong back into the realm of horror movies, giddy that he’d gotten to indulge a personal thrill that, if my reaction, Bruce’s reaction, and those all around us was any indication, was a thrill for a lot more people than just Joe Dante.
And that’s a Dante movie in a nutshell—- skewed, off-center, perverse, weirdly funny, unpredictable, deep-dish fun for fans, willing to tread just about anywhere, and close enough to a mainstream sensibility to pass (if you’re not looking too closely) as part of that mainstream. But Joe Dante at 60 is just as irreverent as he was when he took his first directing credit 30 years ago, along with Allan Arkush, on Hollywood Boulevard, and his movies have remained vital and true to his steady sense of genre intelligence and awareness of the world as well. I wish Looney Tunes would have been a success if only to have facilitated another run like he had post-Gremlins. But with the Masters of Horror series, and the unpredictable projects that will continue to pop up to delight Joe Dante fans, and Joe Dante himself, I feel confident in predicting that he’s got a long way to go. I look forward to taking that journey with him.

Joe Dante’s Movies I Like (in order of my preference):

Explorers (1985)
Gremlins 2: The New Batch (1990)
Looney Tunes: Back In Action (2003)
Hollywood Boulevard (1976) (click title to read lots more on this one!)
Homecoming (2006)
Twilight Zone: The Movie (third segment) (1983)
The Howling (1981)
The ‘Burbs (1989)
Runaway Daughters (1994)
Matinee (1993)
Small Soldiers (1998)
Innerspace (1987)
Piranha (1978)

Joe Dante Movies I Don’t Much Like (in descending order):

Gremlins (1984) (though there is plenty to like, and I’m certainly in the mood to give it another chance)
Amazon Women on the Moon (1987; segments only)

(I must admit, here and now, that I have not yet seen The Second Civil War (1997), though I remain on the lookout for it. Here I go to Netflix, in fact…!)

Happy birthday, Joe Dante!

MY 1998 TOUR OF THE ACKERMANSION

'Tis the season, as they say... for merciless stomach flu, that is. The Cozzalio household has been under siege by the meanest bug to land in these here parts in a good long while, and no one has been spared, not even the carpets (if you know what I mean). Both daughters got sick separately, on either side of Thanksgiving Day, and have been recuperating in relative silence ever since. Their mother and I were both slammed in the middle of Saturday night—the Mrs. is still reeling at home and trying to work, while I have made my way out into the brave world and am attempting to be a constructive breadwinner from the office today. (The looks from those around who don’t seem to be convinced that I’m entirely well are pretty rich, but not as rich as the ones I got in CostCo Saturday night after being vomited on while waiting in line at the register. The oh-so-accommodating and understanding dupes in Borat had nothing on these warehouse shoppers as they attempted to avert their eyes or pretend they didn’t notice as my daughter and I, covered in purplish, chunky goo, marched stiffly to the restroom.)

All of which is to say that this week may not turn out exactly how I once envisioned it—not a major deal, usually, but there are two blog-a-thons happening that I definitely want to participate in, both of which may not be able to receive my full attention as a result. Tim Lucas’s tribute to Joe Dante is one I don’t want to miss, but it’s looking like my contribution will be much shorter (and a little later in this evening) than I’d like. And Andy Horbal has a major Film Criticism Blog-a-Thon brewing for the weekend—with a little help from Matt Zoller Seitz I may be able to get a few words in on this one, but again, with the flu last week and a major furniture rearrangement on tap for this weekend (new bunk beds) I’m not sure just how deep it’s gonna go. Fortunately, Andy’s “thon” runs all weekend, so I refuse to give up hope.

But now let’s catch up where we can, shall we? As promised, here (after a wrestling match with technology that I’m still not sure I’ve won) is my 1998 visit to the haunted hills of Horrorwood, Karloffornia, a long-delayed pilgrimage to the Ackermansion, the world-famous home of Forrest J. Ackerman—part two of my contribution to Flickhead’s Forrest J. Ackerman Blog-a-thon! Again, thanks to Flickhead for the wonderful blog-a-thon idea. And I apologize if the audio is not the clearest on these videos—they were never meant to be seen by anyone but me, my wife and my best friend. So please forgive the complete and utter lack of production value, continuity, logic and/or focus on subject matter and enjoy, if at all possible, this tour through the tattered, messy splendors of Forrest J. Ackerman’s Ackermuseum.

ACT ONE: THE PLEDGE



ACT TWO: THE TURN



ACT THREE: THE PRESTIGE

MONSTER BASH: FORRY'S 90th BIRTHDAY PARTY

For those who don’t know the significance of Forrest J. Ackerman, I refer you to Flickhead’s excellent, very personal history of Forrest J. Ackerman’s legacy. Flickhead is busy hosting a Forrest J. Ackerman blog-a-thon in celebration of the man’s 90th birthday, which also just happens to be this very day. Lighting 90 candles is a big job, so let me offer some assistance.

To invoke the name Forrest J. Ackerman in a room full of (mostly) men and (some) women of roughly my age (tail-end baby boomer movie buffs) is like playing a game of “Spot the Monster Geek”—pointed ears are likely to prick up and bloodshot eyes are likely to twinkle at the mention of his name, and then the outing is complete. But those of us raised on Famous Monsters of Filmland, the magazine that Ackerman founded with publisher James Warren, have never been much on cloaking that geekdom-- those who loved monsters and horror as kids were usually pretty vocal about it, in the hopes of connecting with yet another fellow night traveler. So discovering Famous Monsters at exactly the right preadolescent age was, for most of us, a clarifying moment, one which confirmed that, yes, despite the claims within the taunting dished out by classmates and friends who just didn’t get the whole monster thing, there were other freaks and nerds who shared this particular obsession, and other older people who were sympathetic to the cause of horror and science-fiction fandom.


















(The first issue of Famous Monsters I ever bought-- my dad would slip me Mad magazine when I was sick, unbeknownst to my mother, but it was my mom who facilitated my initiation to the glorious world these pages held in store.)

Among the ranks of Famous Monsters fans—many of whom, like Joe Dante, Stephen King, John Landis and Steven Spielberg, have become somewhat famous themselves since well before the magazine stopped publishing in 1983—Forrest J. Ackerman was fandom personified, a kind of geek godhead. From high in the Horrorwood Hills of Southern Karloffornia he preached the gospel of a specific kind of movie love, particularly for the early works of Lon Chaney Sr., German expressionist masterpieces like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Metropolis, and, of course, the Universal stable of monsters, to a generation who had steady access of all manner of horror classics from this period (and later, into the ‘50s and ‘60s) when Universal and other companies unleashed their horror stables onto local afternoon TV syndication and regular weekend horror movie programs, hosted by the likes of Seymour (Fright Night with Sinister Seymour) in Los Angeles and Victor Ives & Head, played by Jimmy Hollister. (Sinister Cinema on KATU-TV in Portland, Oregon—this is the one I grew up on.)

And Famous Monsters was the Bible—no corny science fiction or horror film was considered beneath discussion, no bad pun, usually generated from the mind of the Ackermonster himself, was too smelly to print (he did, however, scrupulously avoid the risqué), and the arms-wide-open enthusiasm for all kinds of fantastic cinema was infectious and often paved the way to an appreciation of other genres and film forms as well. Ackerman was the indisputable center of the Famous Monsters universe, and for hard-core monsters like me and my friends in junior high and high school making a real connection with him and that universe was big-time validation, first contact, a foot in the door to a future populated with people who might not automatically denounce a horror fan for his or her unalloyed monster love. (A friend of mine had a picture of himself done up in full vampire regalia printed in the magazine once—he feasted on that little bit of celebrity for months. And I sent in a junior high school class picture of myself to Famous Monsters in 1972 and after a few issues passed promptly forgot about it. Imagine my mixture of delight and horror when, in 1979, during my sophomore year of college, I strolled into a drug store in Eugene, Oregon, thumbed through a new issue of FM and discovered a six-year-old picture of myself under the heading: “Wanted! More Monsters Like..."


















(The Boris Karloff memorial issue, featuring a typically excellent painting by regular Famous Monsters contributor Basil Gogos.)

I had the pleasure of speaking with Forrest J. Ackerman on three occasions during different times of my life. The first was on the phone, from my dorm room in Eugene, around the same time I made the discovery of my eighth-grade mug in the back pages of the magazine. My best friend Bruce and I were killing an afternoon as we often did—hanging around, reading, yapping, and avoiding our studies. Bruce was thumbing through the current issue of Famous Monsters and came across some monsterrific drawings by a young horror fan by the name of Paul Clemens, and we began to wonder if this was the same Paul Clemens who was currently starring in a Marsha Mason weepie entitled Promises in the Dark. The drawings were several years old, and since we figured Clemens was roughly our age, or maybe a little older (there was no IMDb in those days to rapidly verify our curiosities about carbon-dating celebrities), we figured that they must be the same person. But just to settle the matter once and for all, we decided to call Forry himself and ask him. Where we got the cheek to do this, I’m not entirely sure, but Directory Assistance had his name and number, so boldly we dialed, and also trembled slightly as the line rang. After a few rings, a youngish-sounding man picked up, and I asked if this was Forrest J. Ackerman’s residence. The man, who I remember assuming to be the Ackermansion manservant, said that yes, it was, and would I like to speak to Mr. Ackerman. After I quickly said yes, a few moments passed and the next person I heard was the unmistakable voice of Forrest J. Ackerman (I remembered what he sounded like from his brief cameo in the utterly forgettable Dracula vs. Frankenstein). He had a very convivial phone presence and was very patient with these two fans that traded off talking to him about all things monster, for probably no more than five minutes total. (Something tells me this was not the first time he had ever fielded a cold call from a star-struck Famous Monsters enthusiast.) And he did confirm that the artist Paul Clemens was the same young man who was now starring in a movie with Marsha Mason. Satisfaction! Later we told another friend, another Forrest J. fan from way back, what we’d done, and he was horrified, convinced that we’d called and goofed on this icon of childhood fantasy fandom. On the contrary, we were thrilled to have talked sincerely with him for even five minutes, and perhaps a little embarrassed to be as thrilled as we were.

About eight years later Bruce, his wife, and I were visiting the old Hollywood museum that used to be located next to the Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. The museum was packed with authentic costumes, props and other significant memorabilia from the annals of Hollywood history, and as a visitor to Los Angeles (I was still about two years away from becoming a resident) it was a fascinating place to visit. (Bruce, who had been living in Los Angeles for a couple of years by then, loved it too.) He and I got distracted by an exhibit of costumes from Gone with the Wind and were marveling over the detail on one of Scarlet’s dresses when Bruce noticed his wife over on the other side of the room talking to an older gentleman. “Look,” Bruce said, “some old guy has Pattie cornered and is telling her some story about the old days of Hollywood, and she can’t escape!” We both quietly watched and laughed for a moment or two. I don’t remember which of us noticed that the part of the room she was standing in was an exhibit of science fiction props and models and posters and such. But as soon as we did, we took a little closer look at the old guy who had Pattie’s ear. “Jesus, I think that’s Forrest J. Ackerman,” I said. Bruce quickly agreed, and we made our way across the floor, sidled up next to Pattie, introduced ourselves (I don’t remember if we told him about the phone call) and attempted to wedge ourselves into the conversation they were having. The four of us stood around, Mr. Ackerman holding court and describing several items in the display cases, which he told us were lent to the museum from his private collection. “You mean, from the Ackermansion?” Bruce asked. Forry lit up instantly and said, “Yes, indeed! You know about the Ackermansion?” We explained our lifelong connection to Famous Monsters, and he ended up extending an invitation to us to visit his famous, expansive digs in the Hollywood Hills. Why we didn’t take him up on it, I don’t remember exactly, and I’ve always regretted it. But I do remember laughing for the rest of the day at the image of Pattie stuck talking to a monster buff icon whose identify was completely unknown to her, while the big horror fans were gazing at them both from a distance, from a shrine to Tara, of all places.

Thirteen years later, in 1998, I finally would take Mr. Ackerman up on his rather open-ended invitation. After having lived in Los Angeles for 11 years, I decided it was time to visit the Ackermansion before, for whatever reason, it was too late. My wife, good sport that she was (is), agreed to accompany me, and we made a pilgrimage one Saturday afternoon. Not long after our visit, he was forced to sell off his collection and vacate the house permanently, so I feel fortunate that the last time I would meet Forrest J. Ackerman in person would be when he was still surrounded by his glory, within the hallowed walls of the Ackermansion, every square inch of space taken up by the most amazing, astounding, expansive, and increasingly tattered and worn collection of horror and science fiction memorabilia ever assembled under one roof. Of course I brought my video camera and shot about 22 minutes of footage, never thinking that anyone but me, my wife, and Bruce would ever be interested in seeing it. But now, in the age of YouTube, the footage is available for anyone who cares to see the Ackermansion from the inside, in living, blood-curdling color.

Alas, technical difficulties beyond my control are preventing me from uploading my video to YouTube so all might enjoy it. So until I get my techno-act together, please enjoy this parody of the opening of James Whale’s Frankenstein, shot for a film by Paul Bunnell entitled That Little Monster, which finds F.J.A. in the role of the concerned master of ceremonies warning the audience of the horrors to come originally embodied by Edward Van Sloan. Come Monday, I will deliver a new post that will feature my tour of the spectacular splendors of the Ackermansion. I apologize for the delay, but if it helps assuage the pangs of anticipation, think of this as chapter one in one of those serials, like Radar Men from the Moon, that Forrest J. Ackerman and Famous Monsters of Filmland helped to introduce to a TV generation of monster freaks and fans. Only I will guarantee that my part two will deliver the goods, unlike those serials which placed the hero in inescapable harm’s way at the end of one chapter, only to improbably yank him to safety at the beginning of chapter two. For now, have the happiest of birthdays, Forry! See you Monday!



UPDATE 11/28/06: My battle with technology is over! Available now for your viewing pleasure, a three-part video of My 1998 Tour of the Ackermansion! Enjoy!

THANKSGIVING CARVER

(Photo grabbed from a live Web cam this afternoon on the Port Angeles, Washington Web site. This is what it looked like this morning at 11:29 a.m. in Raymond Carver's world.)

I don't think Robert Altman ever really burrowed into Raymond Carver-- Short Cuts was an Altman movie (and not one of his good ones, in my minority opinion) grafted onto a skeleton bolted together from Carver's work. But today, as I contemplate the Thanksgiving holiday with the loss of a great film artist still looming in my consciousness, I'd like to give thanks by posting two evocative poems by Carver, another great artist lost to us before his work was really finished-- poems which find the longing and pain and enthralling beauty in the commonplace, poems that paint a picture of a beautiful part of the world that was so much a part of Carver's artistic vision as a poet and storyteller, a part of the world that had nothing to do with Short Cuts.

*************************************************************************************

"Happiness"

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

*************************************************************************************

"This Morning"

This morning was something. A little snow
lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear
blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green,
as far as the eye could see.
Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went
for a walk -- determined not to return
until I took in what Nature had to offer.
I passed close to some old, bent-over trees.
Crossed a field strewn with rocks
where snow had drifted. Kept going
until I reached the bluff.
Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and
the gulls wheeling over the white beach
far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure
cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts
began to wander. I had to will
myself to see what I was seeing
and nothing else. I had to tell myself this is what
mattered, not the other. (And I did see it,
for a minute or two!) For a minute or two
it crowded out the usual musings on
what was right, and what was wrong -- duty,
tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat
with my former wife. All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I've trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn't know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.

*************************************************************************************

ONE LAST LOOK: TOMLIN AND STREEP INTRODUCE ROBERT ALTMAN AT THE 2005 ACADEMY AWARDS

“Since you’ve gone/My heart is broken/Another time…”
-- Keith Carradine, Allan Nichols, Cristina Raines, Tom, Bill and Mary reunited singing Gary Busey’s ballad “Since You’ve Gone”, from Nashville


(Thanks to David Hudson.)

"Mr. Altman loved making movies. He loved the chaos of shooting and the sociability of the crew and actors — he adored actors — and he loved the editing room and he especially loved sitting in a screening room and watching the thing over and over with other people. He didn't care for the money end of things, he didn't mind doing publicity, but when he was working he was in heaven.

He and I once talked about making a movie about a man coming back to Lake Wobegon to bury his father, and Mr. Altman said, 'The death of an old man is not a tragedy.' I used that line in the movie we wound up making — the Angel of Death says it to the Lunch Lady, comforting her on the death of her lover Chuck Akers in his dressing room, 'The death of an old man is not a tragedy.' Mr. Altman's death seems so honorable and righteous — to go in full-flight, doing what you love — like his comrades in the Army Air Force in WWII who got shot out of the sky and simply vanished into blue air — and all of us who worked with him had the great privilege of seeing an 81-year-old guy doing what he loved to do. I'm sorry that our movie turned out to be his last, but I do know that he loved making it. It's a great thing to be 81 and in love."

- Garrison Keillor, from today's Prairie Home Companion newsletter
(Thanks, Jen.)

GOODBYE, MR. ALTMAN 1925-2006

Robert Altman taught me how to see movies, and I went into his classroom kicking and screaming. As a young kid keeping up with film culture largely from the sidelines, I became obsessed, at an age far too young to actually see the movie, with Altman’s 1970 hit M*A*S*H. I read as much as I could about it— one or two reviews and the occasional newspaper article were about all I could get my hands on, but I did smuggle Richard Hooker’s novel, on which the movie was based, into my junior high locker and read it surreptitiously, voraciously. I wouldn’t see M*A*S*H in its theatrical release—I was even denied access to the slightly recut PG-rated version that bowed a few years later in re-release. The first time I actually saw M*A*S*H was when it aired on the CBS Friday Night Movie, back in the days when bowdlerized version of theatrical hits premiering on TV were mini-events of their own. It was panned-and-scanned (again, back in the days when regular citizens really had no idea what cropping movies for TV was), broken up into bits to accommodate commercials, its profanity and nudity and blood sanitized for my protection. And yet I still laughed my ass off, because I was finally getting to see some version of the film.

Even as I became more and more film aware in my high school days, vacuuming up every movie I could get in front of my eyes in my isolated Southern Oregon hometown, and familiarizing myself with directors and films that I knew had little or no chance of ever being shown on TV or in the local movie theater, I watched from afar as Altman unleashed Brewster McCloud, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Images, The Long Goodbye, California Split and Thieves Like Us, helping to shape and populate what many would come to consider one of the golden ages of American cinema. I knew of the movies from the usual sources, and I had ran across a couple of Pauline Kael’s reviews thumbing through The New Yorker in the county library, but not a single one of Altman’s early ‘70s pictures after M*A*S*H played in my hometown.Then came the summer of 1975. Kael’s famous (in some circles, infamous) rave for Nashville paved the way for its studio, Paramount, to expect a big hit. And although the movie was a high-profile release that garnered similarly moonstruck reviews from almost every critic, in box-office terms the movie did not, as Kael put it, zoom off into the stratosphere. Another picture, released a week later, did instead—it was called Jaws. I was 15 years old, and that was the movie I wanted to see. Nashville, a movie about which I barely had an understanding, in terms of “plot” or anything else that might conceivably hook me into it, could wait.

And wait it did. Later, during the winter of that year, Nashville came to town and so my buddies and I decided to go see what all the pomp and circumstance was all about. We were all flummoxed by the movie’s loose-limbed approach to narrative—who can keep up with all these people and their comings and goings? I thought it looked lousy (and really, for a great movie, I still think its cinematography is rarely more than pedestrian) and it had this vague air of self-satisfaction about it that kept me at arm’s length and really turned me off. And we all made the assumption that making a movie about life, and seeing a movie about life, was the same thing as experiencing life—so why pay $5 to go see some country singer clip her toenails and then get shot, or watch a bunch of redneck show business types run around, bumping into each other for nearly three hours, when you could walk outside the theater and see it for free? (In answer to a question recently posed by Matt Zoller Seitz, it had obviously not occurred to me that Nashville was, in any way, choreographed or directed.) Clearly, at age 15, I had not seen enough of this real life I was on my soapbox about to understand what was going on in Nashville. In fact, I hated the movie.

At age 17 I was off to college as a declared film studies major, and suddenly I found myself surrounded by people who loved to say words like “Altmanesque” and who seemed to think that Altman was the greatest American film director. How could the guy who made Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson, a more boring, pretentious piece of crap than even Nashville, be America’s greatest director? I would see Nashville ag