SEEN ON SCREEN

O.K., O.K. so I didn’t keep my promise and include the info on the videos I’ve seen of late. You hardly missed it anyway. And if you did, you were kind enough to be cool about it. Anyway, just because you waited...

It is seldom that I catch first-run flicks, but there is still something about some of them that urges me to see them...whenever. That impetus is either a friend or relative or colleague and every now and then I get drawn in because of a newspaper review. Well, not having visited the big screen for a while, I opted for the video rental scene and picked up these:

"G.I. Jane" - Good flick. An different and interesting twist to the beaten-to- death story of macho movie men who think that no female can or should join their hitherto exclusive (in this case military) club. A bald headed Demi Moore shows that feminine wiles can readily be upgraded to female wilds! She is convincing, effective and puts together a worth seeing performance.

"187" - Here’s an example of me getting sucked in by an enthusiastic Black radio personality who gave a strong recommendation. I fell for it and plopped the $2.25 on the counter for the rental. Bad idea. I like Samuel L. Jackson. But I hated this story and equally appalling, the s-l-o-w scrolling California sunshine gold drenched - to the point of utter exasperation - cinematography. Having been on the receiving end of NYC high school violence, Jackson heads West and, in a bizarre and totally unconvincing twist of educational fate become the soul mate/father confessor of a young female teacher who is more confused than the plot of "187". As a way of getting revenge for: 1) what earlier happening to him, 2) the woe visited upon his new high school soul sister and 3) the new disrespect he faces, Jackson goes "William Tell" on one Latino student and then - for who knows what reason, cuts off one of the boy’s fingers. He really makes his point with the bigger-than-academic-life classroom tough guy by simply murdering him. My goodness! What is happening to our teachers these days! To add surrealism to this unrealism, Jackson does what he does all under a suggested cloud of holy self-righteousness...if there is such a thing.

Finally (whew!) he shoots himself in the head [the thinking man’s solution?] in an act of the very phenomenon he despises, machismo prompting his pistol holding, one less finger antagonist to, you guessed, follow suit. "187" is neither a chiller nor a thriller. It is a real bummer...make that a sophomoric bummer. Don’t rent or steal it.

"Soul Food" - It has been said by may viewers that the sumptuous meals in the movie were the true thread which tied the flick together. That comment is as generous as the helpings served to and by the family. But that’s as far as it goes. For me, the only reliable thread was the measured and sensitive narration of the young star. He made a lot more sense than either the plot or the direction. What we have here is another loud-talking, endlessly battling dysfunctional Black family. Here we go again.

"Soul Food" is actually and unfortunately two films in one. In its well-intended attempt to tell the all inclusive Black family story in one swoop it includes too much and, as a consequence, says too little. As for the ratings game there are scenes and language clearly not fitting for youthful eyes and ears. And to say "They (i.e., youngsters) have seen and heard it long before the movie’s script was even written," is a weak excuse or explanation for taking the kiddies along. In fact, that kind of statement is a sign of collective or community failure. There are no automatic rites of cinematic passage. With more imaginative and conscientious editing, we might have had a near hit. In the absence of same, we get another Hollywood Ho Hum.

"Micro Cosmos" - There is a strange (although not a fatal one) attraction that the big, intelligent world of human beings has to the little, intelligent world of insects...or, like we used to call them, bugs. Our usual question is what do they do that is similar to what we do. Well, to their credit and advantage, not a whole lot. They are "driven" by natural forces that have them ,for example, gathering and storing food during the "off season" in quantities, cooperate with each other without question and avoid 2 or multi-legged enemies at all costs.

The planning for this documentary must have been extensive. The same can be said for the patience of the camera crew. The end product is exquisite, stunning in concept and totally educational for people of all ages. That’s rare these days. See "Micro Cosmos" and bring the kiddies.

DUCK, HERE COME THE BLACK HANDS!

When it came over the morning news that the President had all but gone into a rage, I should have intuitively know better. One might easily have assumed that he had completely lost it and fired at the throngs of excited Ghanaians with an Uzzi...like American tv style. Well, as it turns out, he was certainly angry but not because as one reporter had been prepared to tell the world, because so many Black hands were reaching toward him BUT because was concerned about the fate of two women who were about to be crushed. In their enthusiasm to "press flesh" the spectators were clearly carried away; and unless they moved back, a mini-horror could have occurred - just like at European soccer matches! To want to do something to turn the scene around was only natural.

But if fault-finding gives us some relief, let’s blame Mother Nature. After all, it’s usually the woman’s fault to begin with...and (in this case) the two of them should have known better than to...yada, yada, yada. But then we could well say something along this line: Why haven’t trips to this multi-million people continent been common practice for American presidents before now. Then, the excitement might have worn off. Hmmmm. Nuff said.

THE GETTY: MO’ DEAD EUROPEANS

One happy critic declared that the Getty Museum was "too good for Los Angeles." It was an interesting observation, but had the ring of unnecessary elitism. Now there is no sense in railing against elitism in Los Angeles or anyplace else. Like the brown stuff, elitism happens. It’s just that the critic’s presumed insight lacks accuracy. Whatever else might be said about this billion dollar edifice, it does not "top" the nature of this city. Los Angeles swallows EVERYTHING and, because of this, NOTHING is too big, too small, too bad or too good for this place. Period.

On the contrary, Los Angeles is a number of peculiar steps ahead of the Getty. And this is somewhat strange. In actuality, it is the Getty that has some catching up to do. First off, I did enjoy the afternoon I spent there a little over a month ago.

On the plus side, the lay out is "airy" and I liked that. My visit was on an exceptionally bright and clear day and that was a real treat. And because it was so clear, it didn’t surprise me that many people opted to stand around on the many balconies and simply take in the Brentwood to San Pedro panorama or the equally spectacular one that swept from Mt. Baldy to Catalina Island. Now you talk about a clear day! The informal dress of the hundreds of visitors and the cadres of young people just hanging out, taking pictures and chatting about everything but art.

Polite and helpful docents...a noteworthy treat. A convenient scattering of food and beverage kiosks. Dynamite use of computer graphics and related technologies. BUT - you knew it was coming - to dog gone much dead European art. For me, it was to the point of utter boredom. Art lovers will bang me up against the wall for submitting to a stereotype that I know is unfair, but I can’t shake it: If you’ve seen one Medieval painting, well, you know the rest. It gets to be a real tired scene before very long. You - no let me personalize it - I stopped to wonder what any collector had in might to gather up so much of the same staid stuff. Placid women holding equally placid children, royalty looking royally stupid, boats going who knows where, Horses galloping into the sunset. Brightly colored dull subjects. And all of it, every hanging bit of it totally ancient! I got bored super quick but continued the self-torture as long as I could; and then I went to the great outdoors and soaked up more of contemporary Los Angeles. The contrast was both startling and refreshing.

L.A. remains an upbeat place. It has plenty of room for everybody and everything. Dead Europeans are also welcome; but not occupying so much prominent space. Let the pictorial dead stay dead!

THE UNFORGETTABLE ONES

Let’s once again go back to the good old days. And, before I incite a riot, let me firmly declare that they truly were just that. Those with memories more in tack than mine can say what they time frame (the years on the calendar) was. To say "the 50’s" is good enough for me. Some many of us were members of the St. Luke’s Church choir. And what a choir it was.(Maybe one time DOWN FRONT! will singularly address that special experience. But for now, the focus is more precise.)

The choir’s organist was one Richard Pettaway. Even now I read lots of articles about musicians. But I don’t have the skill of describing what constitutes a "good" musician in general or an organist in particular. So my assessment here of this particular Unforgettable Character must, of necessity, take a different path. Mr. Pettaway - what else would we dare call him? - had had some formal training with this marvelous instrument. I believe he had attended Yale School of Music, but I’m not sure. The big hit with me was that he totally dominated the instrument. He hummed while playing and at times seem to actually talk to the keyboard. The keyboard responded appropriately. But beyond that, it was sheer joy to watch his feet glide over the foot petals. I always wondered how he knew which one to tap...without even looking down. He wasn’t an especially good vocalist but he had the magic and the trust that pushed those of us in the choir to sing well, to sing exceedingly well.

So what made him special? unforgettable? His competence, his command (of us anyway) and the absolute trust he engendered. It was like we were singing not simply because it was the churchly thing to do or because we under rather strict parental order to be in the choir, but more importantly because he helped us feel good about our top notch performance and because it pleased us to please him.

I don’t know how many years after the presumed innocence of adolescence that I learned that Mr. Pettaway was a homosexual. It was someone for whom such a statement was evidently important. On reflection I don’t know to this day if it was said to pop a preciously held bubble or simply to be mean-spirited. What I knew then as well I know now that it made absolutely no difference what lack of acceptance he made have "suffered" from those who were "adults" like he was when interacting with us. Those of us who were under his tutelage already new that he often came to choir rehearsals and Sunday service with the distinct smell of alcohol. He was reeking. And his eyes invariably "glassed up." But he played anyway, and we sang as though there was only that service. And it all came out just fine. We were real good and Mr. Richard Pettaway was the best organist in our youthful lives. Musically, nothing else mattered. Rest in peace.

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