It Was Twenty Years Ago Today...

Okay, a little more than twenty years since The Potatoes backed up Tiny Tim at Club Dada (May 19th, 1988). This photo was taken on May 18, 1988 and includes Hubert Winnubst (on left), French Acers, Mister Tim, Will Clay, & John Kays (me). Big Bucks Burnett & Jack Turlington (left to right) are in the front. When Tiny Tim showed up to our funky rehearsal space, The Tater Palace, he had his ukelele in a Neiman Marcus shopping bag. This was his standard way of carrying his musical instrument (to the best of my recollection). We LOVED Mister Tim, & will always love him. I LOVE those Potatoes and Mister Bucks too (& will always love em). If you would like to hear a more detailed account of that historic night, send me a comment! Maybe, I can get these guys (the retired, still living, former Potatoes & Big Bucks) to write their stories too, if you would dig it!

Please read my beautifully edited (by Judyth Piazza) review of Raising Sand on NewsBlaze too. This is my first music review, so don`t be too critical of me. I will improve with time. I did that with music too, as best as I can recall.

RAISING SAND

RAISING SAND-ROBERT PLANT/ALISON KRAUSS-MAJOR GRAND SLAM! BY JOHN G. KAYS

Great Caesar`s Ghost, heavens ta mergatroid, (as Snagle Puss use to say) by cracky, Robert Plant IS a God on “Raising Sand” (Rounder) and Alison Krauss IS an Appalachian Sappho, fiddling feistily and piping odes of love-lost in pleasant pitch. Yet T Bone Burnett is Zeus himself pulling the marionette strings of these sundry lesser gods, picking up perfect songs, providing fresh arrangements for such rarities, and using a stack of veteran musicians who bless us with subtleties unfolding with each new listen. “Raising Sand” is a rusty squeeze box, a faded glass menagerie, a curio of a long lost era that belongs to none. I`ve been to Candyland and I`ve played Candyland (but I`ve never been to Electric Ladyland, but sure would dig it); nonetheless the bonding of this odd couple, twilight of the gods arena rocker and smoky mountain diva, works for reasons unknown, a perfect storm of banjo, golden throats, fiddle, electric guitar, a thousand permutations of percussion, and a genius record producer who knows his way around the block and then some.

I`ve invoked a mystery muse for this tidbit, a forgotten recipe stuffed in a ceramic Elvis cookie jar, crooning away on a microphone, and thus I`m ‘In Search of a Lost Chord’ here (in so many words), and so gather fodder from what I have compiled from my forefathers, the Maximilien Robespierres (would you believe the Vladimir Lenins?) of rock music criticism. I can still remember seeing Lester Bangs popping a vinyl LP on the turntable, then waxing hysterically, or cursin` the rock stars who wail these tunes or spit these riffs out an` wax em in so many grooves for hungry freaks. I frantically turned this platter “Raising Sand” over more than 150 times, stood on my head, read other coverage, isolated the instruments, listened to each section of every song, but found only an ineffability present, some alien sounds that left me on a vessel with no particular destination in mind, both in terms of the process for telling and the isolation of the musical DNA contained within the album itself.

My review is a distillation of bits and pieces, scratch pad doodles, misty recollections, or looking-glass scraps from a yellowing 1969 Rolling Stone, lying solitary on some stacks of an abandoned archive, catching dust. They did it right back then anyway. I began a solemn search for a method to this madness, that is, what is the process that one should use to write a music review? Ed Ward is a member of the Yahoo Group that I belong to, CasaGrandeEast, and so I had the opportunity to question him about this issue. I asked Ed, one of the original music critics for Rolling Stone (but so much more these days in terms of writing-travel, food, art, history, the Berlin Connection, and lots of other stuff make up his ingredients), “What process do you use to write a music review?” I will include his response in tact and let it speak for itself. ‘To be honest? I can`t answer that question. In fact, it doesn`t even make sense to me. I will, however, repeat something John Burks, who was managing editor at Rolling Stone when I was there, used to say, “Just imagine you heard something you want to turn your friends onto. What do you tell them?” A bit over-simplified, but something to think about (Ed Ward-an email).’

I tried to take his advice, but only morsels sifted into my consciousness. I listened to the record in many different moods, and in odd environments such as the urban jungle of Sixth Street, with hollow hobos driftin` at dawn. I even scribbled some lines outdoors at UT by the LBJ Library, while college students were shooting a video (I`m still wondering why the girls were in bikinis and one cat was dressed up as a clown?), Yea, I was armed solely with my MP3 player and my trusty parker pen; I slovenly jotted down lackluster sketches in my Office Depot (you can almost feel the sterility) notebook. But something was missing; hadn`t the ‘big boys’, back in the day, felt those gaping black holes when their editors were begging them for copy on the most recent offering of Emerson, Lake, and Palmer? I recalled that Lester Bangs had a similar empty feeling, had a clear sense that a vacuum permeated rock music itself, that the well was now poison you see; yea, ROCK WAS DEAD! It took Punk Rock to resurrect Lester back from the departed (to cure his writer`s block) and to put a fire back under him (like he had felt with The Doors in the Sixties). When I put this together, I suddenly felt a fresh spark myself from the likes of Plant, Krauss, and Burnett, and the light bulb came on in a strange way; these were the founts of spring water that sprinkled my brow with sweetness, stardust brushed over me, and my shape altered. I was a spick-and-span man again, and hurried home and put my ailing ears right `gainst my Beovox S40 Bang & Olufsen speakers, the most perfect ear-boxes that ever were-they have served me for three decades-; eureka, mesmerizing music transported my spirits to the spheres of the Mousai!

I ain`t no Mark Twain and I ain`t no Lester Bangs, I ain`t even no Prairie Miller, but I was shocked when I found out that I was sufferin` from a mild case of writer`s block as I banged staccato strokes on my Gateway relic of a keyboard. (Stop your cleverness people, I know you`re saying, “John, you may not know it, but you have ‘terminal writer`s block’”). I transcend this malady (presently) by reading the greats of rock criticism (Lester Bangs, Robert Christgau, and Ed Ward), hoping some of the good juju will rub off on me. Maybe if I give the appearance that I`m having some fun, the stigma or better yet the stigmata, will lift. When I read Lester he doesn`t hold back nothing`-writes whatever he feels like-and this only increases his audience. In fact, this is why we like him so much, because he`s a self-indulgent, pompous, narcissistic asshole who thinks higher of himself than a bunch of stupid rock musicians who he constantly has to plaster an obnoxious wallpaper-of-words-on for the paltry pulp of Creem and Rolling Stone. This is why he is our hero. And as I pondered, chewed on these revelations, I tossed overboard the lions share of my editing abilities; hey, this isn`t “The Sound And The Fury” by William Faulkner, I thought to myself, after all! Yea, I let myself go and didn`t give it a second thought.

This album is a brontosaurus trudging through the verdure, or rather through the sand, and getting its bully way as it carves a path of destruction through the primeval rain forest of Tunes Ville. The reason that it challenges us so potently is that it has jettisoned some sacred barriers of music that would normally come through the forms of bluegrass, country, pop, mega-rock, or even ballads, and so something modish emerges. It`s not a singer-songwriter record either, and thank God for that! As soon as we spot it here as a horse-of-a-different-color, by way of miracle the Technicolor turns on so very brightly and we`re Dorothies crashin` in the Merry Olde Land of Oz with a kaplunk, after the twister unmercifully whirls us there. Robert reclaims his throne in heaven because of this serendipity, this realignment of the orbs, but probably it`s a result of so many magic tricks by the Merlin T Bone Burnett, where bluegrass and rock can morph to an au courant species of music never heard by temporal beings heretofore.

We take off with a thud on the first song “Rich Woman” an R and B shuffle, a catchy vocal duet for Robert and Alison, where dollars and sex appeal (the money/honey dichotomy) go hand in glove. The percussion is up in the mix and the delay on the guitar, that is also flanged coolly in the middle eight, reminds me of the early Sun Sessions, the Mystery Train thing or The Killer`s brawlings on “Whole Lotta Shakin` Goin` On”. The second track is a heartfelt “Killing The Blues” penned by Rowland Salley, and is a sad poetic ode with soothing harmonies; moreover, this is a vocal capstone for Ms. Krauss. The pedal steel guitar by Gregory Leisz slowly jacks up the lyrics off the page, ‘bouncing over a white cloud’, guitars are stacked to the sky and blended tenderly; here blues are a viable path to optimism.

“Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us” is the most melodic song of all with droning drums and banjo and fiddle interplay, and is a particularly canny showcase for Alison`s pipes. The song was written by Sam Phillips, an Ex of producer T Bone, and the B-section is one of the most beautiful I`ve ever heard, since Mary Hopkins` “Those Were the Days”, written by Paul McCartney in the early Apple Record days. “Polly Come Home Again” is slow and dirge-like and was penned by Gene Clark of The Byrds fame. Robert Plant provides an apropos monotone to the sad lyrics that speak of a love loss, ‘I felt much of the pain as it begins.’ I dug up some backlog on The Byrds at this rest stop, reread Bud Scoppa`s famous piece in The Rolling Stone Illustrated History Of Rock & Roll (1976, 1980) and felt Byrdsie fingerprint smudges present (when I dusted for them) throughout this spectacular oeuvre of Americana. I`m listening to “Eight Miles High” at this very moment, and see the changes of the country right before my very eyes (as if I`m watching a history time-capsule film of the Sixties)!

“Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On)” is the punchy pop hit from the record with a fun video, an oasis of bright yellow in a sea of blue. “Through the Morning, Through the Night” is another Gene Clark song and is given a country interpretation with pedal steel guitar twangin` against overdubbed harmonies by Alison. The arrangements are minimal, the piece is understated and paced; this lament by Gene Clark is sincerely sad and seduces you into this melancholic mood, a love loss that can not easily be repaired. A refreshing digression for me was the discovery of Gene Clark`s solo project “Echoes”, a dusty gem by way of grandma`s attic, a seldom heard clarion burst of flower-power from 1967 that`s getting robust rotation from yours truly! I can not play this enough, “Echoes” is sensational!

I`m goin` back in gradually. Back down the river where hostility is all around, and the primitives shoot their poisonous darts at me with impunity. I still remember that Rock & Roll killed Lester Bangs! As I was watching Indiana Jones the other day, I realized that this form was dead too. Lester felt the same way when he listened to over-produced Seventies rock with synthesizers, such as ELO! But this album brings me back to America and I return gracefully to the heartland of Americana, where Tom Waits and Townes Van Zandt reside, and hobos make a fire and tell stories of endurance. And the Neville Brothers are pickin` `til the break of dawn, and T Bone gets it all, and broken New Orleans is on the mend, and banjos or fiddles remind us of Seeger or Guthrie or Bobby and we are home again. I can read through “The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll” as if it`s for the first time, and it`s fresh and revealing to me. And all because some musicians got together and agreed to play some songs, but they were bringing miles of experience to the table, and things came together to create a new paradigm, but all the old forms were still there, but used again in an unusual way. That is a paradox if you think on it.

With thumpy bass and jaunty rhythms behind “Please Read The Letter”, gentle pleas from Mister Plant and urgent harmonies from Ms. Krauss are everywhere, since ‘their walls came falling down’ or ‘the secrets and the memories we cherish in the deep’-touching lyrics and riveting fiddle lead by Ms. K. Just a few Plants moans and a partial penning from Jimmy Page, injects this with some Zeppelin-zap that squirms and gyrates loosely, clear-see right in the grooves when you look at the vinyl under a microscope. Another listening today revealed the beauty of the shimmering harmonies. These two should team up permanently! “Trampled Rose” resides in an empty space of the heart, a Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan composition, it`s a bopping lament where banjo is echoing and percussion racket is thumping, traces of xylophone and strings, it sounds like you are in a tunnel. I feel safe here inside Tom Waits` world of carnies and misbegotten outcasts, but I feel mostly empty such as a homeless critic hitching rides with a sign (will write for food) on a lonesome interstate, Highway 61!

“Fortune Teller”, written by Naomi Neville, conjures images of Madam Marie Laveau for me and the occult arts of New Orleans. I love the Rolling Stones earlier take on it, and this minimalist version is a clever arrangement where by the first half of the song is soft, then it breaks open with some joltin` guitar and sweaty metal bendin` by Mark Ribot- dude, this rocked my world! The middle section has only hand clappin` and treated primal female vocals that is really ingenious, just before the Bad section. “Stick With Me Baby”, a pop-country song penned by Mel Tillis, is a tasty little ditty, a classy duo where the vocals are subtly blended and the electric guitars are drenched in reverb.

“Nothin`” is the most distinct arrangement of all the songs on the album from the composer`s original version. The vocal lines are light, then the relief-response-part wails with fuzzy guitar and frolicking fiddle; the dynamics are astounding and put me in my place! “Nothin`” was written by the dearly departed Townes Van Zandt, who fairs from these parts (Austin), and is a legend of the highest caliber. I was fortunate enough to see him a few times in the seventies and can attest to his vision as nothin` (pardon for the word) short of revelatory! You would benefit immensely by reading the lyric book as you listen to this. If you can, please dig up some of his original recordings and witness for yourself the brilliance of his feelings and ideas.

“Let Your Loss Be Your Lesson” is a chug-a-lug C and W boogie-woogie shuffle that snaps and pops. Alison belts it out with gusto, but the best is the bluesy guitar with low treble with a four bar accent before each verse. “Your Long Journey” is another tent revival, tear-jerking duo by the twin song-gods that sends a chill down your spine. The autoharp gives it an olde-timey feel and you feel as if you`re gliding down the Mississippi River on a riverboat with Mister Twain as your captain navigating you to New Orleans!

I`m listening to Scarlett Johansson`s “Falling Down” as I write this. It reminds me of Lester Bangs and breakthroughs that have made Rock and Roll a trippy world to dwell in. It has consumed some, though, sucked em into the abyss, ‘everyone knew that hotel was a goner’, Chelsea Hotel I guess, but there is an equality of songs on “Raising Sand”, and the whole thing works together with persnickety like a concept album ought a. ‘My house was full of rings and charms and pretty birds’, and here was the conundrum staring me in the face. The reason I was sufferin` writer`s block was that I had been going back inadvertently to the Seventies into ‘Lester`s Bag of Malaise’, I was there again, and stuck in the muddy puddles of the Eagles, BloodRock, or Nitzinger, but I gotta tow from AAA and raced back on “The Road”, by way of the perfect manuscript for counterculture (that`s on display at the HRC in Austin now), and was resuscitated otra vez (this is modeled from the opening lines of the “Divine Comedy”). It was my blunder to dwell on Led Zeppelin, but Plant suggested them, and this caused me to make a wrong turn onto this “Highway To Hell”. Plant transcends his old role here and is a part of this ‘New Art’. Just think of the title “Raising Sand”, and as illusive as it is, it suggests to me the idea of creating an oasis of art out of an exceedingly dry desert of sand. I could be off base on this, but that is what it is telling me. A vibrant new paradigm emerges from a drought of locusts; this would be an escape from the Seventies and Led Zeppelin for Plant, you see! Okay, I may be trippin`, but that is what I`m seeing! And so my curse dissipated, I didn`t evaporate from the landscape such as Lord Carnarvon (or Lester for that matter) when violating the sacred tomb of Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings. So please read the review that I wrote, people!

* This piece is dedicated to the late Lester Bangs, a pioneer of rock music journalism, who had the courage to write what he really felt in his heart to be the truth!

A BLAST OF FLOWER POWER...??

PLEASE TAKE A JOURNEY TO MY PIECE THE COUNTERFEITERS ON NEWS BLAZE! I NEED TO BOOST MY NUMBERS OVER THERE. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE! ALSO, YOU CAN FIND ME ON VERVEEARTH NOW! JUST CLICK ON AUSTIN AND PUT IT ON ART, MOVIES, OR HISTORY AND YOU WILL FIND CLAUDE BOVEE. IT`S PRETTY NEAT!

I`m longing for a blast of flower power today. This may be partially due to the fact that this story is breaking about possible new bodies being found on Barker Ranch. I didn`t think that the Manson Family story could have such endurance, but it`s coming back to life again. Eerie memories seem to surface, but I surfed itunes for some flower power ditties from a fresher period. I found it in Gene Clark`s Echoes, a 1967 release, a little bit before the over-ripening of psychedelic generation. I downloaded the twenty tracks just like that! To my surprise I have never heard this before. It sounds just like The Byrds, but the quality of the songs is a little sub-par. It still has Chris Hillman and Michael Clarke as the rhythm section. The jingle janglie guitars, possibly twelve string, are stacked to the sky and the harmonies are complex and choir-like, just like The Byrds. I didn`t really know Gene Clark`s story very well, so I read up on him on wikipedia. It`s a sad one along the lines of Townes Van Zandt or Gram Parsons. This is a recurring pattern…I astutely discern. I came to Gene Clark because he wrote two of the songs that appear on Raising Sand, a really spectacular record that I am trying to write a review on. Polly Come Home and Through the Morning, Through the Night are two very fine songs that led me to Gene Clark. Then when I was reading up on The Byrds I realized that he had written many of the mega-hits, like Eight Miles High, I`ll Feel A Whole Lot Better, and Set You Free This Time. I`ve never heard most of the songs on Echoes, but the sound is familiar to me and the tambourine shaking is an old sensation.

Only Colombe is playing right now and has a mandolin rippling throughout. So you Say You Lost Your Baby is the last track…it`s just an acoustic guitar and a vocal and it has double-entendre lyrics and a nasal vocal…very good song. I doubt if many people have ever heard it. Echoes is a big production number. Strings, flutes, and the lyrics are electric. I just read that Terry Melcher was the producer for The Byrds…Eurekia! There`s the Manson connection with Gene Clark that I was able to make through the back door. Melcher actually owned the Sharon Tate mansion and was possibly the real target of the flower molls, if I can remember my Ed Sanders. His book on The Family is really the best one to read, in case you are curious to travel down that Black Brick Road…He headed up the band The Fugs and it`s been a long time since I heard them.

I Knew I`d Want You is a great song too…harmonies all the way through…the guitars are crisp and top off each line. Here Without You reminds me of Eight Miles High, the way the minor key melody cascades up the scale…the harmonies on the chorus are rapturous. I knew I Wanted You is more of a drone, an ode? On Set You Free This Time the melody is atonal, but the sound is full, overdubs are present on the vocals. I`m beginning to believe that the folk/rock label of The Byrds was largely due to the influence of Gene Clark. Boston is a catchy one and starts off the album. For Me Again is maybe the best song on the record. In listening to these ancient songs I feel like I am in a museum for ancient music. I`ve found some very old tracks and as I look at the ghost town photos of Barker Ranch a chilly feeling comes over. I can`t find my old Byrds, so it`s lost, just like many of these great stars who have succumbed to substance abuse…wasted talent. I sure needed this blast from the past today, and I don`t know exactly why? So you say you lost your baby…if they find some lost flower children buried behind Barker Ranch we will discover something odd from the past. Maybe Manson really is The Devil! But I need a fix of positive flower power today…not the Dark Force of The Sixties!

THE COUNTERFEITERS (DIE FALSCHER)

THE COUNTERFEITERS (DIE FALSCHER) by John G. Kays
**** ½ stars

‘A True Tale of Bogus Bills and Shaky Scruples’

We wrestle with some universal issues here, our souls are rattled precipitously by such subhuman atrocities; what is protocol for a prisoner in a concentration camp? Are the instincts of survival exclusively at play, or should one pay homage to ethereal ethical principles? The Counterfeiters, an Oscar winner this year for best foreign film (in German with English subtitles), is a charged package of drama that puts us in the line of fire. You and I are precisely there. No escaping is possible; we are forced to confront the abominations of incarceration by a ruthless throng of bully Fascists. With a staggering story snatched from the pages of history, creditable acting, and resonating themes, I am awarding it four and a half stars out of five. The discriminating acting of Karl Markovics as Sally is a study in emotive nuance and props it (the movie) up on a pedestal. Tonight (April 27th) I will watch Nazi Scrapbooks From Hell, a documentary about Auschwitz done by Erik Nelson, that uses photographs to bring these harrowing events to life. This is a non-fiction complement to the project under scrutiny here. Some films are just for fun, while others are made of the sterner stuff; The Counterfeiters is in the latter category and should be filed in ‘the library of freedom’ under: ‘required viewing for all who cherish democracy’, if such a classification might be uncovered.

The Counterfeiters (Die Falscher) is the story of Salomon “Sally” Sorowitsch (Karl Markovics), a master counterfeiter of currency and a forger of passports and documents. He is arrested and sent to the concentration camp Mauthausen in 1936, surely because he is a Jew, not because he is a criminal. Later he is transferred to Sachsenhausen and is commissioned by Herzog (David Striesow), the same S.S. officer who first arrested him, to create a factory for fake currency. First they perfect British pound notes and even cajole the experts at the Bank of England, then they try to tackle the dollar, but run into some complications in duplicating it. Salomon Sorowitsch recruits a consortium of talented cronies, such as printers, chemists, graphic artists, and typographers for the Nazi enterprise. Specifically, the charge is to flood the western economies with bogus bills in order to sabotage those markets, and champion the charades of The Third Reich. The drama takes place within the confines of Sachsenhausen and is a survival story blearily in the template of Stalag 17 or Bridge Over the River Kwai.

The coveted inmates, in sharp contrast to say the condemned prisoners of Auschwitz, have bed linen, running water, piped in opera, and actual food, but the sound of gunfire and screams leak into their quarters as they play ping-pong or discuss their plight during spotty idle moments. As they succeed in producing the British pound the moral question arises: are we giving aid to the Nazis too freely? They begin to stumble while working on the dollar and are threatened with the gas chamber by Herzog, who is under pressure by Heinrich Himmler himself .

A trademark of this story is its ground in history; the screenplay, written by Stefan Ruzowitzky, (he does a proper job as director too) is culled from Adolf Burger`s (a Communist with scruples) The Devil`s Workshop. These memoirs document the scheme of the Nazis to counterfeit pound notes and dollars, a top secret project called Operation Bernhard, and as proof of its existence over one billion pounds in banknotes were recovered by the allies at the end of the war. The real Salomon Sorowitsch was a Russian Jew named Salomon Smolianoff. The counterfeit operation was directed by the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) and its commander, Reinhard Heydrich, who is also remembered (for certain infamously) as a master architect of the Holocaust. Noteworthy in its irony is the German slogan on the front entrance gate of Sachsenhausen: Arbeit Macht Fre; translated as “work brings freedom”.

The Counterfeiters is a focused character study of Solomon Sorowitsch, who has a knack for surviving in sticky circumstance. “Sally” is ever the pragmatist, who gives the Nazis their every wish, but by contrast, Adolph Burger (August Diehl) is an idealist willing to sabotage the operation for his beliefs. Friedrich Herzog (Devid Striesow), the commander of Sachsenhausen, secretly protects the expert counterfeiter, but as the Russians surround Berlin, he weathers the downgrades with struggle. Hauptscharfuhrer Holst (Martin Brambach) is an S.S. psycho who sadistically shoots prisoners for little reason. One critic has compared him to Colonel Klink or Sergeant Schultz in the TV staple, Hogan`s Heroes. Actually, this is a serious, chilly portrayal of a Nazi criminal, so no trace of comedy is conceivable; Holst is a big player in making the Holocaust a reality, and so the comparison is lame and inappropriate.

The incandescent acting of Karl Markovics is a bolt of lightning; you are inside his character as he circumnavigates Nazi landmines and plucks his confederates like pop-strings under a warm June sky. His Sally is shifty and criminal-like with a greedy twinkle in his eyes. Markovics masters the ‘life-long offender’ angle of Sorowitsch with his dodgy eyes and angular face. His demeanor is crafty, nuanced, and he ambles about with chameleon-like instincts-he rides his environs with the dexterity of a high-wire acrobat-a Walinsky perchance. Early on while still at Mauthausen he paints some picture-perfect portraits of Nazi officers, gaining their confidence. At Sachsenhausen he assembles a crack-A-squad that grinds out the fake British notes like an efficient Model-T-Ford assembly line. His portrayal is multifaceted though, and he evokes humanity for the prisoner with TB by feeding him and arranging for his needed medication from Herzog. Sally is humiliated by Holst in one scene (Holst urinates on him in a latrine) and he is filled with rage-he yanks out the wash basin in the bathroom! This signals a tell-tale shift in his perspective.

His balanced portrayal is complimented by August Diehl`s role of Adolf Burger as the idealist who is willing to openly defy the Nazis. Devid Striesow as the commander Friedrich Herzog is on middle ground and he too survives through stealth and maneuvering. Finally, there is Holst (Martin Brambach) who is more of the garden variety, nefarious Nazi-robot killer, but that is not to say that just such brutes did not exist in Hitler`s real Reich. Coupled with the somber gray tones of the filming, an ambience of realism and depth projects from the screen; but as an oxymoron the acting is otherworldly!

A revelation for me is the plethora of striking scenes that freely pop into my mind throughout the day, with only a slightest suggestion. The fact that I can keep replaying the tape in my head is testament to its visual caliber. A few of the images are: the exhibition of the perfectly duplicated British pound by the crafty crew to Herzog. Another is a simple ping-pong game that is interrupted by gunfire just over the fence, when yet a further pointless execution is carried out by Holst. I can still see it, if I think on it. Next I envisage the rapid stealing of a mostly eaten S.S. officer`s apple by Sally, then his own consumption of said apple core in a flash of a millisecond. The most vivid though, is one of the final scenes, where Sally carries the dead comrade who has TB to a designated convening point after the liberation of the concentration camp. Sorowitsch`s conversion to a ‘real humanity’ is consummated in this exact scene. Did I not detect a dew-drop-tear in the eye of each and every member of the audience-yes, in just this moment of time? The director of photography was Benedict Neuenfels and kudos should be clipped in at this juncture for the starkness, the clammy grays of his camera images. I actually awoke from a startled dream this very morn with the residue of the final sequence referenced still lodged in my circuits!

The theme of The Counterfeiters is the moral dilemma that Sally finds himself in: “to be or not to be”, in a nutshell. Should he simply appease the Nazis and increase the probability of his survival, or should he defy them for his convictions (if he has any), then in short order be scurried off to the gas chambers? Just such a quandary is the focus of these ninety-eight moisture-brow minutes! My best observation is that Sorowitsch seems as if he is playing both sides of the fence, but favors ‘survival’ over ‘idealism’, in fair measure. I thought of Sir Thomas More in A Man For All Seasons, by way of contrast, who makes very different decisions; he is courageous enough to stand up for his beliefs, and refuses to sanction King Henry VIII`s annulment to his queen, Katherine of Aragon. Thus, he loses his head to the axe man for his lofty principles. Sally ‘outlives’ the war and gambles leisurely in Monte Carlo after some very troubling days.

THE COUNTERFEITERS (DIE FALSCHER)

‘A True Tale of Bogus Bills and Shaky Scruples’

“The Counterfeiters”, an Oscar winner this year for Best Foreign Film, is a powerful piece of film in terms of its story, acting, and theme. The story is grounded in history, since the screenplay is based on the book “The Devil`s Workshop” by Adolf Burger. Salomon ‘Sally” Sorowitsch, the anti-hero master forger here, is commissioned by the Nazis (in 1944 at Sachsenhausen concentration camp) to counterfeit currency with the goal of flooding the western economies with phony bills so that they might sabotage those markets. Sally recruits some experts from the talent pool, such as printers, chemists, graphic artists, and typographers for this brazen Nazi enterprise. The better part of this drama is played out within the cold, gray confines of this “work camp”, just outside of Berlin. Three standout scenes that I must note here are: the presentation of the fake British pounds to Friedrich Herzog (the commander of Sachsenhausen), the ping-pong game that is interrupted by gunfire just over the fence, and the painful liberation of the camp, where the “Operation Bernhard” prisoners are nearly shot by some common populous prisoners.

The understated acting of Karl Markovics as Sally is a study in emotive nuance; his Sorowitsch is shifty and guileful with dodging eyes and an angular face. He wreaks, breaths ‘survival’! An example of this is the way he paints perfect portraits of S.S. officers at Mauthausen (his earlier camp) in order to placate them. Yet at other times he is compassionate and dons a conscience that guides him through his hardships. Other actors offer superb performances as well, such as August Diehl in the role of the idealist Adolf Burger or Devid Striesow as the manipulating commander Friedrich Herzog.

The theme of “The Counterfeiters” is the moral dilemma that Sally finds himself in: “to be or not to be”, in a nutshell. Should he simply appease the Nazis and increase the probability of his survival, or should he defy them for his convictions (if he has any), then in short order be scurried off to the gas chambers? Just such a quandary is the focus of these ninety-eight moisture-brow minutes! My best observation is that Sorowitsch seems as if he is playing both sides of the fence, but favors ‘survival’ over ‘idealism’, in fair measure. I thought of Sir Thomas More in “A Man For All Seasons”, by way of contrast, who makes very different decisions; he is courageous enough to stand up for his beliefs, and refuses to sanction King Henry VIII`s annulment to his queen, Katherine of Aragon. Thus, he loses his head to the axe man for his lofty principles. Sally ‘outlives’ the war and gambles leisurely in Monte Carlo after some very troubling days.

JIMMY CARTER: MAN FROM PLAINS

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Jimmy Carter: Man from Plains is directed by Jonathan Demme and is a good snapshot of the former president while on a national book tour for his controversial best selling work: Palestine-Peace Not Apartheid. I`ve read most of the book and acquired my copy at BookPeople when Carter came to Austin. I got to actually see the president and had my copy of the book personally signed. The portrayal by Demme is favorable and shows the courage of Jimmy in the face of criticism for his views about the way Israel treats the Palestinians in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Carter argument is very sensible, and simply shows the way Israel have fenced these people in and oppresses them the way whites have oppressed blacks in South Africa. This is where Apartheid comes in by way of an analogy. There are no flaws in Jimmy`s argument as presented. “The largest mental institution in the country is the Los Angeles County jail.” Rosilyn Carter gives a speech on the problem of mental illness. Jimmy is still very fit and mentally alert and still a big force for peace in the Middle East…A lot of airports and airplanes…Kenneth Stein, a director of the Carter Center, quits during the book tour. Footage of a bombing in Jerusalem. A bombing in Tel Aviv…Atlanta Georgia at the Carter Center. They discuss Daniel Ortega in Nicaragua. Everyone can enact change…See the world with fresh eyes…Security needs on the West Bank…defense of Israeli position. In a hotel again. Book is very carefully checked for accuracy. Does a reading from one of his book. Contract with Simon Schuster. No negotiations in Middle East since President Clinton. Candidates who oppose Israel will lose their support. Only two check points in the Gaza Strip. Carter rides a bike. Camp David Accords footage. Anwar Sadat and Menachim Begin screaming at each other. I love Jimmy Carter. Gas Crisis was a very odd thing to experience. Not one hostage died as a result of Carter`s reaction to the Iranian Hostage Crisis. I`ve studied the Malaise speech and find it honest and revealing. Sake of peace, Begin speaks…Carter has done it…no one else can. “Musicians Village” build a house. Not enough is getting done for home loans for families…Sound track is reflective…Al Escovedo does some of the songs, all instrumental, acoustic…good background music…Now Los Angeles rap music talking on the cell phone. In dressing room for make-up. Loss of land. Loss of freedom. Jimmy with Edward Norton on Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Do you remember Jimmy Carter in Playboy Magazine? He had lust in his heart…Ignore Arab Terrorism? Let the Gaza people get out of the fence. Fence designed to take land. The Geneva Accords to start with. Aljazeera. Riz Khan. Comprehensive peace agreement. Impediment aggression from Israelis. Casa de Laundry. Drives through LA. Good Spanish but he`s rusty. Rosa and I read the bible in Spanish for thirty years. Last thing of the night. In airport again. Friendly to passengers on plane. Music is New Agy, mellifluous, dreamy, a little country. Phoenix AZ. Book is not about Isreali. Mandatory separation and persecution of people. Noxious. Adobe flats cloudy skies Israelite protests…a book of lies..signs copiesPalestinian side then hatred upon us they treat us like nothing. Carter in car and getaway…publicist with him the whole time…human rights abuse in Palestine. Bound together in the Brother of Abraham. Swimming now. The Department of Energy created in his term…Alan Dershowitz doesn`t like it. I supported him 1976. Reasonable debate. Hitler perpetrated one of the worst crimes, the so called holocaust. Hamas was elected freely…Hamas equivalent of Nazis. Hamas terrorist cockroaches. Speaks at Brandeis. Provocative title. Brings the controversy to the public. I`ve been hurt. Called a liar, and a bigot, a coward, an anti-semite. This hurts me. A Harvard professor is not needed. Jimmy Carter is a genius.

10,000 B.C. YET AGAIN??

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10,000 B.C. -A NUMBSKULL-QUASI-CAVEMAN-GENRE-SPINOFF WITH A SPOT OF SPECTACLE by John G. Kays

‘It was important for me to not over do it National Geographic style.’ Steven Strait on his role as D`Leh.

‘Lana, zug-zug.’ Grunts from Ringo Starr in Caveman 1981.

It looks like the light of day is dimming on this Easter Sunday and I am still rubbernecking the entrails of 10,000 B.C.? I replay the clip of the freeing of the saber-tooth tiger by D`Leh for parallels. Daniel and the Lion perhaps? Curiously, why did Roland Emmerich spend two years on the CGI of 10,000 B.C.; is Tony-The-Tame-Tiger and Wimpy-Wally-the-Wooly-Mammoth all he could conjure in the laboratory? Gadzooks, these cartoons are not that scary! The chomping gargantuan ostriches look like Thanksgiving Day turkeys shot full steroids and hybrid nutrients. This stuck out like a sore thumb, but was pleasant pulp inserted in these meandering (meaningless) excursions through tropical jungles; is this yet another Mayan-laden Central America of yesteryear (see Apocalypto)?

Now close your eyes, my pretty! You are getting drowsy, you are falling into a deep, deep slumber. I command you to jump through the white canvas screen and now you are literally in the movie 10,000 B.C. The plot, if you can detect one, is packaged in a frame of three periods. The first third covers the Ice Age (shot in New Zealand) and just includes some military training (see 300) and then the big wooly mammoth hunt, where d`Leh snags a big bull and gets the sacred white spear. The second third is the Amazonian Tropical Rain Forest segment (shot in South Africa), or the Jungle Book period, and includes the capture of some tribes people of Yagahl by the “four-legged demons” (Tartar-like equestrian warriors that are teeming with evil). Especially noteworthy is the snagging of the princess Evolet (Camilla Belle) whose destiny is mostly prophesized as a ‘pivotal one’.

Alright, I hope you are still drowsy. Oh, I am certain of it after snacking on this pompous piece of pie. Your eyelids could use some close-pins, I do believe. Nonetheless, the third and final portion of B.C. is the Egyptian-Desert-Pyramid-period (shot in Namibia), where stupid slaves are building leviathan pyramids with beaucoup Wooly-Mammoths at the behest of some odd anteater-looking high priests with real long, spooky claws. I don`t have the slightest idea what they are up to, I just know that they are evil critters of the highest caliber, and they seem to mirror some of the tricks of the bad guys in the movie Matrix. Go ahead and see for yourself? Oh yea, the “four-legged demons” are employed by this goofy priest cult. The finale is a Coors Light Spartacus with mostly fake violence.This is the crescendo and resembles the ‘let my people go’ loop (from The Ten Commandments), and as such D`Leh amasses an army of down and outs and commences to bust up this greedy party of golden-calf-idle-worshippers. Evolet plays a key part in the liberation too, but I am not certain just how? I do know she comes back from the dead, yea, resurrects right before your eyes, when the shaman-medicine-woman, Ma-Ma from the Adam`s Family back at the homeland, channels some magic across the universe. I know it turns out happily ever after, but the scrapping is ‘but a light affair’, as Santa Anna once said in conjunction with the siege of the Alamo. Gee whiz, that is most of it.

Anachronisms flourish like moldy fungus in and on B.C., but thrill you with their audacity. “Roland and I never intended for 10,000 B.C. to be a documentary.” Words of Kloser again. No problem, comprende senor! A few fauxpas` for ya: pyramids in 10,000 years ago? Dreadlocks on hunter-gatherers? Proper English diction? Weren`t wooly mammoths already extinct at this time? Military sailboats on this fake river Nile? Did One Million Years B.C. have as bountiful of a basket of anachronisms? At least we got to see Raquel Welch in that rockin` Flintstones` bikini! Ostriches the size of giraffes snapping at the little tickie boy? Can D`Leh cross time zones by multiple millenniums too? It doesn`t matter actually, in fact, it makes it funnier. A narcissistic comment here is in order. I was hoping to make this piece inspired, logical, and even with smooth transitions, the way good writing is suppose to be (as Judyth Piazza, the editor here, would want it, I surmise), but B.C. is so stupid, banal, irrational, historically inaccurate, and lopsided, that I don`t think it would be possible for me to apply any writing virtues in its portrayal. This is a clever rationale for the imperfections of this writing, don`t you think?

“Only time can teach us what is truth and what is legend.” Omar Sharif provides the narration that is overview for the gospel of the oppressed Yagahl, a tribe of Rastafarian cavemen with exquisite English diction. The screenplay is written by Roland Emmerich and Harald Kloser; it would be comical to read it in a script format. They created their own theology for this Paleolithic culture of hunter-gatherers. I do not need to see all the specifics, but it looks like a zany kaleidoscope (from my tree nest) of classic fragments, ransacked from say Cecil B. Demille`s The Ten Commandments or Mel Gibson`s Apocalypto, arbitrarily glued together into a tripping, fanciful collage of a B movie. I did not see Ice Age but it has been suggested that some of this was chunked in the mix as well. My own spot of gray matter senses some lifts from Jungle Book; they can be seen through the shop window, if you look hard enough.

I will be brief on the acting and music. Steven Strait, Camille Belle, and Cliff Curtis are manikins, crash test dummies for this empty caveman genre spectacle. They might as well have just twiddled their thumbs on the sets, but not that they didn`t do just that. The acting is easy to describe: it`s a polar bear in a snow storm, white on rice, lifeless bodies that phone it in. The music score by Harald Kloser contains misplaced notes, out of sync fanfares, obnoxious and intrusive; the football is greasy and squirts out of his hands, yea, he fumbles on the twenty yard line and the audience grabs for their earplugs but can not find them in the nick of time. Even Red Skelton himself is a better composer than that Kloser dude!

“Did I miss something?”, I asked myself as I exited the theater. I scratched my head in befuddlement as I pondered the convoluted theology that was generated by the flickering footage. When I got home I thumbed through the Bhagavad Gita for clues to fathom Emmerich`s vision. The Bhagavad Gita was created in 10,000 B.C. so it must contain keys to the universal understanding of say, the shaman-medicine-woman (Ma-Ma) draped in bone-beads who saw it all. I knew that D`Leh (Steven Strait) was a prophet and savior for the indigenous hunter-gatherer tribes seeking freedom from the bondage of the priest cult now ruling over the ‘new pyramid culture’. I fancied D`Leh as a Lord Krishna dictating a new philosophy to his troubled people. The blessed Lord Krishna said: “Fire, light, day, the moon`s brightness, the six months of the north-turning sun: dying then, men who are free go to absolute freedom.” Eureka, I was starting to see it now!

Surely there is something in 2001 A Space Odyssey that explains the events that unfold randomly on the screen? There is a beginning, middle, and end to both films so maybe that is the connection. Then I rehashed the tenets of eHarmony, a club that I have just joined, to divine an intersection; maybe D`Leh and the blue-eyed Evolet (Camille Belle) with the spiffy dreadlocks had met on eHarmony? Twenty-seven levels of compatibility would explain the harmonics between the two, wouldn`t it? Banality and boredom set in, then ultimately despair. I thumbed through the images again. Desperately, I turned the leafs of the Old Testament for harbingers. Icelandic legend anyone? A petrified scrap from the blind poet Homer? Come On! Reveal your secrets unto me, oh Karnack The Magnificent?

Why yet another dry review of an obvious cut-out-bin toss off, that will never see the light of day for even another nanosecond, much less a handful of millenniums? For one thing I have the flu currently and am trying to amuse myself until I recover (I will return to a more serious project in short order). Another reason is that readers love to witness shark-jawed critics rip the fatty flesh away from bone on such a paltry piece of pseudo-prehistoric fluff. B.C. is a plump partridge (probably in a pear tree) of caveman days` hocus-pocus; i.e. ripe meat for the carrion crow (film critics). The reader himself likes to join in on the act, yea, this is much appreciated audience participation; then they too can tear off a slab of chi kabob and devour it ritually, then guffaw defiantly at its .09 rating on the Rotten Tomatoes` Tomatometer. This may account for my perusal of all coverage of said film and the actual vacating of my condo to visit my local cinema for a viewing of 10,000 B.C., in person. The irony here is that this film is wracking up big receipts and the critics are receiving more reads, as dumb-down amateurs jawbone `bout the water cooler. Bravo! Everyone comes out a winner! That is cool, my fair weathered friends! B.C. is an oddity preserved in a bottle, a relic of P.T. Barnum that folk can Wow! over; it is a Hindenburg, a Tiny Tim, a Jumbo the Elephant that brushes us with a feather unmercifully. Have you seen Aretha Franklin lately? She fits in (but it is a tight fit) somewhere here, don`t you think?

10,000 B.C. The Legend. The Battle. The First Hero. Huh? This is the cornball slogan that is printed on the arcade poster that you stare at dumbly (that word is coming up a lot) as you enter your favorite local suburban multiplex, in every city known to man, in our great big country. Oh yea, Lost In Time. Duh! 108 minutes of Cheese Whiz and Ritz Crackers? Let`s try to snuff out the light here before a CGI herd of mastodons gets back up and starts charging us! Please bring closure to this thing, Mister John! Before you know it I`ll be pushing up old goat daisies! What we have here really, is a hefty bale of plastic, Pleistocene cotton candy, that gives you a whopper of a stomach ach as you wander through the Neanderthal ‘mall of life’. 10,000 B.C. is the new 2001 A Space Odyssey, April Fools, you gullible buffoon!