When Somewhat Bad is Pretty Good: We Go to the Orson Welles Movie

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Two things: E., BPD and I went to see "Me and Orson Welles" at the Shattuck Cinemas last night.

The nominal star was someone named Zac Efron, who played the male ingenue. I knew he was some kind of teen star but had absolutely no idea why. Anyway, he's plays a kid who bluffs his way into a small role in Welles' 1937 production of Julius Caesar. Without spoiling the plot for you, let me just say that if you conclude that the kid actor is not a very good actor, the plot makes more sense and the resolution is more emotionally satisfying.

However, it seemed to me that Zac Efron is not a very good actor, which is not the same as a good actor playing "bad." But maybe a good actor playing "bad" is too subtle by half and can spoil the fantasy, particularly if the good/bad actor is familiar. Hey, we know you are a good actor! And thus we fail to accept the fiction as it is presented.

Of course, any way this played out was going to be dissonant, I guess, though maybe I was just working too hard. During the movie -- which I enjoyed and recommend -- I kept wondering just where Efron was trying to pitch his performance: Was he trying (and failing) to suggest that the kid was actually a pretty good actor, which would have made the ending rather sad? Or was ...?

I guess the short answer is where is a young Richard Dreyfuss when you need him? The great thing about Richard Dreyfuss is that he always both repulses and attracts, in roles and in person.

E. had no problem with Efron. She "read" his character as pleasant, open-hearted, likeable and -- in the acting scenes -- unformed, good enough in context because in Julius Caesar he has a very small part. In other words, he was just right, not all that interesting but fine in context because the nonstop hugeness of Orson Welles would probably have worn us out.

We all agreed that the guy who played Orson Welles -- Christian McKay? That's what the credits said -- was spectacular, capturing the inner Welles and well beyond imitation, BPD said.

Then we went to the bar at the Shattuck Hotel and had a drink. I can't honestly recommend the bar at the Shattuck hotel because E. wanted a grasshopper, which the bartender did not have the goods to make. We asked him what else he might suggest -- girl drink! girl drink! I kept saying -- and there was a long silence, as if he was stupefied by the question.

I mean, the silence did not end, not until I suggested a glass of port. (I should have thought Cosmo. My bad.)

Either the bartender was a great actor, playing with us as a cruel youth might do to tottering elders, or genuinely didn't have a clue.

The Day After: Rereading this post the day after -- and I do, marveling at the greatness that was Robertson Yesterday -- I realize that I omitted one other possibility for my judgment of Efron relative effectiveness. It could simply be miscasting. Everyone else in the cast has a Thirties New York face -- big features, often eccentric, even Claire Danes who really sometimes does look like a handsome man in drag. But Efron has smooth small pretty boy features. He just doesn't look like a citizen in this particular movie.

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Is Religion a Male Disease?

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E. just said that, having read in the Financial Times about another attempt on the life of a/the Danish cartoonist who disrespected The Prophet.

(We try to kill people who disrespect The Profit. That's another story.)

One of the reasons it would be nice to be retired would be that I'd have the time to Sit and Read and Come to a Conclusion. Does religion do more harm than good in the conduct of human affairs? I tend to think it does, but I may not be making a judgment on the distortions religion visits on us but on our fundamental distortions as human beings that invent religion as a rationalization.

Perhaps, the fault is not in our gods but in ourselves? On my. Quipping so easily trumps thinking.

I am Duty Bound to Blog About Obama's Speech

I'm a blogger. That's what bloggers do. They blog. If they stop blogging, they aren't bloggers. It's a very existential thing: existence before essence.

But what to say? Then again, that's not a question that has ever stopped a blogger from blogging. But when you are not quite sure what to say, the answer is:

Bullet Points. And here they come.

* I will be more disappointed in Obama if he fails to hit at least a 6-of-10 on the goodness scale with whatever healthcare reform Congress passes than I was with Clinton when he failed to get anything at all through. It's the Southern thing. I felt in my bones that Clinton was flawed, Faulkneresque. I had more hope than expectation (being Southern).

But Obama seemed like a new thing, and even though any analysis of his record in the context of Illinois politics suggested how very moderate and cautious he was, one could not fail to project upon him what was possible rather than what was likely. His blackness (such as it is; what there is of it) filled one with conviction that he was an outsider, which I interpreted as meaning he would come charging into the temple like Jesus among the moneychangers.

There was no particular reason to think this, only to be convinced of it. So if Clinton was from Faulkner, where is Obama from, fictionally speaking?

Moby Dick, All the King's Men, Death of a Salesman, The Great Gatsby -- damn, all my fav American lit is depressing. I think perhaps I must fall back on Shakespeare and Henry V.

Barack. About that speech tomorrow: Adapt, adopt and improve.



(Liberals as "we few; we happy few." That works.)

William Shakespeare's Five and Twenty Random Things Abovt Me

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The rest are just as funny. Kudos to the Canadian, Mike McPhaden.


1 Sometimes I Feele so trapp’d by iambic pentameter... Does that make me a Freake?

2 I haue been Knowne to cry at Bear-baiting.

3 I am not uery ticklish. I am Not. So prithee, do not euen try. Waste. Of. Time.

4 I cannot keep Lice, and know not why.

5 Sometimes I thinke plays are all Talke, Talke Talke, and wish for a cart-chase scene. I tried one in The Merry Wives, but it looked like Shitte, so I cut it. The men playing the horses were so Pissed at me.

P.S. By the way, humorian Robert (Bob) Wieder brought this to my attention. When it comes to yuks, his palate is quite refined.

I Don't Know, But Nobody Thought I Did

I'm just going to copy today's graph from the Iowa Electronic Markets, which most of my regular readers are familiar with. IEM takes a "wisdom of crowds" approach that I've always thought was a better predictor than most political prognostications. If this chart looks likes a tangle of string -- McCain's up and Romney's down; no they isn't! -- it's because the race for the Republican nomination is a tangle of string.

No, that's too passive an image. On a daily basis, this chart writhes like a basket of snakes.

About six weeks ago, I weighed in at Brother Patrick Daugherty's blog to the effect that the political future's markets had McCain down at around 10 cents and then was the time to buy. Up went McCain! (I was just talking. I didn't buy.) But now to my surprise McCain took major lumps in Michigan, and (I read) the exit polls show the true Repubs still don't like him, which will cause him problems in all those states with closed primaries.

I give up. I have no idea who will win. My inclination is to root for the craziest of that foul bouquet of Republican weeds, but events might then elect the madman come November. My wishes don't matter anyway. Just say no to magical thinking! I suppose I should step back and watch, relishing the comedy, hoping that it doesn't turn into tragedy for Our Team down the road.

Hands off, Shakespeare!