Westerns are my jam

Fig. 1 The Duke is my bae

I recently made a confession to my dad.

"I am totally in love with westerns."

*Dad snorts and laughs* "Sorry, that's just not what I expected from you at all."

Yes, this may come as a shock to those who think they know me well. Probably since I am an East-Coast college-educated liberal arts type whose admiration/tolerance level for country music is "general loathing" and whose experience with farm animals was relegated to four years of agriculture class in high school. I hate guns and hyper-masculine attitudes and camo-print anything. I want to die every time anyone quotes Duck Dynasty.

But I love bluegrass (which was country music before there was even a country) and I grew up in the South, so I'm not completely adverse to down-home wholesome hard-working culture. I'm not outdoorsy per se, but I definitely have a healthy love for plants, animals, and beautiful landscapes.

These things are not even a semi-decent reason or explanation for why the Western still managed to sneak into my soul and seat itself there as a mild obsession. This genre of film--and similar literature--is almost completely divorced from the modern sense of "country-western" culture anyway. When Dean Martin crooned for his companions in "Rio Bravo" 1959 he was singing about sunsets, canyons, prairie birds, and his favorite pony, not trailer trash, jukeboxes and "shaking it off." Fuck that shit.

I'm all about John Wayne. Can't get enough of him these days. I know, I know he's exactly the hyper-masculine poster boy I'm supposed to resent as a modern feminist. He's all guns and grit and goddamned whisky. But you know what? He's not a redneck. He's not a hipster. He's not a fake. His characters are genuine and honest about their nature, and they don't bullshit. He gets off his horse and drinks his milk, damnit. He gets shit done and he does it with dignity and a touch of humanizing humor.

Gregory Peck doesn't look half bad in chaps either.

Fig. 2 The coolest Greg there ever was

I suppose this all started with a viewing of "Red River"1948 in my narrative film class in college. It's a perfect specimen of the genre. Howard Hawks directs John Wayne and Monty Clift in an epic tale of a cattle drive out of Texas. Wayne is his usual determined and efficient self, and Monty's tight trousers-covered bum is easy on the eyes. It chronicled a world very well-removd from my own, which made it inherently interesting at the time.

Fig. 3 The boys get rough on the range

I must've seen a small handful of Westerns over the next ten years. It was only recently that I came to realize that each rare occasion was a very fun and enjoyable one. The Coen Bros' "No Country For Old Men" 2007 , while not a pure example of the genre, certainly had enough of a Western flavor. It definitely turned me on to those wide-open untouched landscapes and hard-assed characters. Ultimately, it was that masterpiece of a remake "True Grit" 2010 that catalyzed my newfound infatuation. Re-visiting the original (starring John Wayne!) did me in forever.

Fig. 4-5 Rooster Cogburn brings new meaning to multitasking

Now I'm reading Lonesome Dove on my kindle and lamenting the fact that there aren't enough Westerns on Netflix. I'm never going to redecorate my house with thousands of square feet of stained wood paneling and mounted cattle horns (UGH my sense of aesthetics is aching), but I'm content with it gracing my big screen.

The secret to all of these films' appeal? That quintessential requirement of Westerns: the driving theme of man v. nature v. the nature of man. When my husband commented on my sudden addiction to Westerns, he summed it up as well I could have. He said that what typifies the Western is that man is pitted against the vast, untamed wilderness, which always serves to reveal man's true nature in the absence of society--the open range as anvil on which the metal of a man is forged and tested. It's just as easy to return to a one-horse town with more honor as it is to ramble in with far less. It's the gut-wrenching drama leading up to the revelation that keeps me watching. That and John Wayne's colorful kerchiefs.

P.S. I named my latest Catesetum John Wayne. He is just starting to bloom these oxblood-red flowers of awesomeness. I'll keep you posted.

Fig. 6 Just one more nice photo of Monty for you. You're welcome.

The Nun's Story (1959)

Fig.1 Sister What-A-Waste

Despite myself (myself being agnostic and entirely ultra-unorthodox any type of religion), I always find myself deeply interested in and awed by nuns. And there are none so effortlessly watchable and interesting than Audrey Hepburn in "The Nun's Story" (1959). It's based on the novel of the same name in which a Belgian woman decides to dedicate her life to God as a bride of Christ, hoping to bring her experience and expertise as a nurse to the convent with the ultimate dream of getting assigned to a charity hospital in the Congo.

When I saw the description on my DVR, I immediately thought, "OMG is THIS the film that explains that cockatiel photo?!"

Fig.2 OMG HEPBURN AND COCKATIEL I LOVE COCKATIELS

Honestly, I only wanted to watch it to have the chance at seeing Audrey handling cockatiels.

*SPOILER ALERT*
Audrey doesn't handle any cockatiels.

So barring that little disappointment, I ADORED THIS FILM.

There's something so endlessly intriguing to me about the lives of the uber religious. Sometimes, they're wackos whose ultimate dream is to enslave all of humanity until they all believe in JESUS or ALLAH or L. RON HUBBARD or whatever, but most times, they're quite thoughtful and humanitarian folks who find humbling themselves before God a very rewarding experience. I find reading or watching movies about their lifestyles a very rewarding experience.

For example, this film chronicles how Audrey's character, Sister Luke, is expected to progress through various levels of servitude to her order. The behind-the-altar rituals and lessons are fascinating. I especially loved seeing the everyday duties she had to carry out, such as remaining silent all day, writing down her thoughts in a little notebook, asking for forgiveness in front of a whole room of silently judging nuns, and attending to the patients at the clinic. She couldn't even speak to the patients--she could only nod and smile, lest she'd have to confess her sin to the mother superior. She was required to sleep and dress in a "cell" that consisted of little more than white curtains separating a bed and a washstand.

Fig.3 Mass marriage

At an important point in the plot, she is about to take her nursing exam, and one of her superiors advised her to humbly fail the test so she could rid herself of her pride. She couldn't bring herself to do it, so she is punished with an assignment that was less than desirable: minding a sanitarium ward.

Eventually, she is humbled enough to be assigned to the Congo and she travels there with enthusiasm.  When she gets there, she's shown the impoverished local villagers and she truly enjoys meeting them, but then she is disappointed again when she is told that she has to work in the white people hospital. Blargh. White people.

Fig. 4 Co-worker anxiety

She clashes with the surgeon, who is an atheist and thinks the nuns are silly, but there's also all this sexual tension. He chides her, saying that she could be so much more useful as a REAL nurse. Maybe he was really thinking that she could be more useful IN HIS BED. Anyway, she begins to really re-think the whole nun thing.

*SPOILER ALERT* When WWII breaks out and her father dies, her superiors tell her to remain neutral. Since she cannot betray her own conscience and do nothing to help the war effort, she leaves the convent, in a both awkward and equally uplifting final scene.

Fig.5 Yet another animal she does not handle in this film

Audrey got her third Oscar nomination for "The Nun's Story" and a well-deserved one at that. She is the very picture of subtle emotion and nuanced acting. She proves over and over again that she is not simply a pretty face. Her performance of this inspiring proto-feminist character made me examine my own loyalty and devotion in life, love, and passion. It's a moving, beautiful story about the human spirit and following your own heart towards helping others in this fucked-up world.

Figs. 6 & 7 OMG MORE COCKATIELS

The Orchid Whisperer (?)

Fig. 1 My prized monster orchid, Aishvarya, embraces me

Anyone who's ever heard that I collect/grow/obsess over orchids has said one of two things:

1) Aren't they hard to take care of? 

2) Maybe you can fix mine; I think it's dead.

My answers are always:

A) Not if you know what you're doing.

B) Everyone kills their first orchid. And as good as I am, I cannot actually resurrect yours from the grave. I am an orchid saint, not Orchid Jesus.

When I was a kid, I bought a tiny plastic mini garden necklace from Target and grew one seed at a time around my neck. I kept a mobile garden of these babies in a red wagon with holes drilled into the bottom for drainage. I named every sprout like they were my children. I kept hydroponically-raised herbs and houseplants on my bedroom windowsill and actually did a science fair project about it.

Fig. 2 OMG I MISS HAVING THIS SO BAD I WANT IT BACK

When I went to college, I took with me a bonsai-sized tree I grew from seed that was a gift from a dear friend. I took a plant class and kept cloned weeds in tiny jars on my windowsill. When I became an adult, I rooted more houseplants and kept a potted kitchen garden by the pool for culinary purposes.

Obviously, something as botanically infamous as orchids were meant to be in my life. 

I did kill my first one. Classic beginner's mistake: overwatering. I rotted out the roots and by the time I noticed, it was too late. I had done my homework and everything, but I babied it way too much. I was convinced I was not meant to continue with this orchid curiosity.

Then my sister had a wedding reception for which she procured a live orchid for each guest table. At the end of the evening, my mom and I were obliged to take some home. I shrugged and said I'd try not to kill them.

The three orchids I adopted from those tables are still alive and well in my collection to this day. 

Fig.3 The Doctor's last regeneration April

Of course, in order to establish a sense of commitment and irrational personification, I dubbed them with beloved names. They were Holmes, Kirk, and The Doctor, which have turned out to be very appropriate labels for each. Holmes is lugubrious and self-absorbed, unwilling to bloom for me on a regular basis, preferring to be dark and mysterious. Kirk is very much the opposite with his flamboyant colors, scent, and dramatic and confident leaves.The Doctor is best of all, as he is always ready to regenerate with multiple branches of blossoms that have a different face every time.

I've learned a lot since 2008, and I will share many stories and tips and facts with you right here. I am happy to answer questions in comments. But one thing I know for certain about orchids is that they are very much like hobbits.

Fig. 5 Welcome to my imagination

The Great Ziegfeld (1936)

"The Great Ziegfeld (1936)" is one of the few black and white films I've ever seen that I wish were in Technicolor. It was, after all, a classic example of an MGM spectacular, full of elaborate costumes, sets, and star power. It's based on the true story of Broadway impresario Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr., and it famously features a "wedding cake" set piece that alone cost more than an entire Ziegfeld show.

Up until I saw this, William Powell and Myrna Loy were Nick and Nora Charles from the "Thin Man" films, so I was always half expecting Asta the dog to scurry into frame. And it took nearly two-thirds of the movie until Myrna showed up! But that was OK, because there were plenty of show-stopping musical numbers to keep me well entertained.

You see, Ziegfeld lived for beautiful ladies and overzealous stage productions. Judging by the movie, the guy was constantly in flux financially, sinking any and all of his box office take on either the next big production or ridiculous carats of diamonds for his wife and/or lady friends. He had his start as a small-time sideshow promoter at the Chicago World's Fair in 1893. One day, he came up with a genius hook: allow women to fondle his strongman Zandow's muscles. Women and their reluctant husbands paid plenty to faint at the sight.

So he had his first star. He went on to make plenty of other big stars with his famous Ziegfeld Follies shows: Will Rogers, Fanny Brice, and his milk-bathing wife, Anna Held. The film chronicles Ziegfeld's multiple successes and failures in life as well as on stage. He was a well-known ladies' man, and when he divorced Anna, he married Billie Burke (Myrna Loy) and soon had a daughter. Billie, BTW, is best known as Glinda, The Good Witch of the North in "The Wizard of Oz" (1939).  

Ziegfeld has his ups and downs, and after he decided to invest all his money into the stock market at exactly the wrong time. When the Crash hits, he loses everything. At the end, he is shown dying, dreaming wistfully about "more steps" towards the heavens, echoing his fetish for having multitudinous stairs for all his Ziegfeld girls to stand on in his big showcases. 

You can't very well NOT have big staircases for these kinds of fashion-week-on-steroids ensembles. 

Powell is very likable in this story, probably because despite the multiple claims by his peers regarding his love of the ladies, not much nooky is shown onscreen. Thanks again, Hays Code. All the juiciness is merely implied, and Powell is so damned amiable anyway that you don't really mind when he falls out of love with his capricious French wife. Hell, as soon as Myrna arrives, their familiar banter is the catalyst for their chemistry, proving that they were meant to be anyway.

The most memorable things about this film, of course, are the frankly ridiculous and addictive "Follies" re-creations. They feature famous songs from Irving Berlin and Jerome Kern and many others. The costumes are exorbitant, bird-of-paradise-like, and more spangly than a drag show. When the so-called "wedding cake" piece started, my husband and I could hardly believe that such a thing ever existed. It's like watching a slowly twirling everlasting spiral confection filled with beautiful women in various forms of outrageous dresses and headpieces dancing or posing  like living fashion dolls. We weren't sure it would ever stop.

Busby Berkeley, eat your women-kaleidoscope-loving heart out.

So, if you've got three hours to kill, and love Depression-Era extravagance, check this one out. Your eyes will get diabetes. Guaranteed.

Reap the Wild Wind 1942

I dare anyone to just look at this poster and NOT want to see this movie immediately. DeMille. John Wayne. Steampunk diving gear. Giant squid. There is nothing wrong with this combination. And I love a good old seafaring movie as much as I love a good old western. They're basically westerns on water, anyways.

I discovered the existence of "Reap the Wild Wind" (1942) by descending into one of the only below ground cellars in all of Key West. It was damp and smelled of the sea, and there was an impressive display of memorabilia behind glass. It showcased this epic piece of crowd pleasing cinema about my beloved Conch Republic's wild and surprising history.

It's set in the 1840's, when Key West was the hub of a maddeningly successful ship salvage industry in the caribbean. I squeed when that Ten Commandments voice started epically explaining the premise. Paulette Goddard plays Loxi, who runs a salvage business started by her father. She appears to be doing well, if her Gone With The Wind-style classic Victorian manse and mounds of petticoated skirts are any indication. But as soon as someone calls "WRECK ASHORE!" she literally jumps out of her frock and into galoshes, ready to sail. This opening sequence alone was enough to make me love her.

From what I remember of what I learned at the Shipwreck Museum, merchant ships wrecked against the shallow coral reefs just south of the Keys all the damn time. Wrecker crews were obliged to rescue the people on the ships first, but then the owner of the salvage ship who got to the wrecked ship first was entitled to half the salvage auction's proceeds. People came from far and wide to bid at top prices for tons of valuables: ivory, textiles, silks, gold, tobacco, and all kinds of luxury goods like musical instruments, jewelry, furniture, etc. 

You didn't even need a hurricane for this to happen often enough that several families on the island had a decent chance to make a sweet living. Key West, for a time, was the richest city in America per capita. Obviously, some people "arranged" shipwrecks by either cutting deals with ship captains to run aground or by simply sticking a lamp on the back of a mule to trick navigators into thinking it was a lighthouse, and therefore leading them into dangerous waters. The Key West wreckers were often suspected of such pirating behavior and often went to trial to determine if their salvage operation was on the level.

So we join Loxi when she misses an opportunity to be the wreck master of the latest wreck. The ship that does get there first gets there a little *too* fast, and people suspect they planned the wreck with the captain. Instead, she salvages something more exciting: a half-drowned Captain Jack (John Wayne). After she nurses him back to health in her own bedroom (a lady's bedroom, oh my!) she falls for him (and who wouldn't!). When she must go visit her cousin in Charleston, she is at first unenthused, but gets chuffed as soon as she finds out that Jack is sailing there as well to face his ship's owner.

Upon arriving in Charleston, she tries to convince Steve (Ray Milland)--who runs the shipping company Jack works for--to give Jack another chance. Steve has a thing for Loxi, of course, and gets Jack the job on the lush steamer the Southern Cross. Noticing that Steve is only doing this to please Loxi, Jack makes a deal with a rival Key West wrecker to purposely wreck the Southern Cross so they can share in the salvage profits. Steve takes Loxi's ship out to stop him, but because Loxi doesn't believe the rumors about Jack's shady plan, she sabotages her own ship to stop Steve from  accosting Jack. The Southern Cross wrecks on the reef, and a trial is held to investigate the matter. 

During the trial, information is revealed that leads everyone to believe Loxi's cousin may have stowed away on the Southern Cross and had died during the wreck. The trial is moved to the site of the wreck (OMG What the very fuck let's all just move the entire courtroom population to the deck of a ship during a storm like it ain't no thing). Jack and Steve both don awesome old school diving suits to descend into the Southern Cross' watery hold and find evidence of what may have happened. Just as Steve finds a telltale shawl, a gigantic orange squid sneaks in and starts attacking them. 

Now this ain't no B-roll Ed Wood squid folks. This is a Technicolor Cecil B. DeMille masterpiece of a puppet with tentacles that have a mind of their own. This squid even notices that the diving men need the ladder to escape the underwater ship and the clever beast manages to yank it out from under them. Like, how the earthly hell does a giant squid known how ladders work for humans? Doesn't matter, because John Wayne stabs the bastard to rescue Steve, who manages to escape to the surface before the raging sea causes the ship to tip off the reef into deep water, drowning poor Jack. Yes, you read that right. John Wayne stabs a giant squid. You ain't never lived till you've seen John Wayne wrestle a squid. Underwater. In a steampunk diving suit.

AMAZEBALLS.

Loxi ends up with Steve in the end, probably due to some dumb Hays Code rule that the man with the dark side must get his comeuppance by the end. Damn you, Hays Code! John Wayne steps off a horse this once and he gets drowned by a hideous sea monster. Go figure. 

Still, I TOTALLY LOVED THIS FILM. Paulette Goddard is spunky and full of chutzpah, John Wayne is super youthful and cool, and hey, GIANT SQUID ATTACK. Can't go wrong.

The Painted Veil (1934)

I recorded this one because I saw the 2006 version a while back, due to my then obsession with Edward Norton. But also, because GARBO.

I just rushed to my bookshelf and grabbed my doorstop edition of Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings. I still had the short essay by French critic Roland Barthes marked with a faded, torn Post-It note that's been there since film class in 2002. "The Face of Garbo" , written in 1957, describes the great actress' image as a "Platonic Idea of the human creature" and representing "this fragile moment when the cinema is about to draw an existential from an existential beauty."

DUDE.

Now, I admit, it's hard to swallow the divinity of Garbo unless you've seen her in action. It's even hard to understand such definite, provocative claims unless you've recently re-acquiainted yourself with the woman's screen presence, because that face truly is an idea... a very multi-faceted idea. She has "not a painted face, but one set in plaster" like a mask. That mask is surprisingly capable of expressing the full spectrum of emotions and even little segues in between. She does it with such a genuine and generous portrayal of unforgettable characters. She utilizes Stanislavsky's "Method" like no other, wherein her internalized emotions are still clearly surfacing, every ripple and bubble morphing the mask.

Even in this relatively unremarkable film, she has every opportunity to show us the versatility of the mask she commands. "The Painted Veil" 1934 is based on the British1925 novel of the same name, and it is as British as they get. Garbo plays Katrin, a woman who marries Walter, a doctor, on a whim. She answers his proposal with "I suppose so." But hey, at least his job gets her out of the house into the big bright world... namely, Hong Kong. When they get there, they both realize how very contrasted their personalities are--he is very studious and spends a lot of time at work with fighting disease, while she is gregarious and social. She meets Jack, who is married, but they hit it off and have an affair. Walter finds out, Katrin says she never really loved Walter, Walter says he will only divorce her if Jack promises to divorce his wife and marry Katrin, Jack refuses to ruin his reputation. Katrin has no choice but to follow Walter to inland China, where a cholera outbreak has been reported. Romance ensues, ironically, and she ends up confessing her renewed love to him after he's been stabbed to death a by a mob that's mad Walter ordered their town burned down due to the epidemic.

ROMANTIC AS HELL.

The 2006 version, with Naomi Watts in the role, has a bittersweet ending (Walter dies of Cholera, but she lives on, happy to have given birth to Walter's daughter). The novel, however, has a fittingly Bronte-esqe ending: Walter dies of cholera, she goes back to Hong Kong, heartbroken, and falls into Charles's (Jack in the movie) bed again. She hates herself, goes home, finds her mother is dead, and raises a fatherless child that may or may not be Walter's.

What I enjoyed most about this emo-fest was she of the ultimate resting bitch-face. But she smiles radiantly when the occasion calls for it. It's almost an entirely different face. Also, what's interesting is how much of the film she spends in a turban or a nun's habit, which further isolates that mask from the body and the female form, emphasizing that iconographic humanity she embodies so purely.

I barely even glanced at anybody else's face in this film but hers. She is an absolute gem--something greater than cinema itself. A deity. Divinity on the silver screen.

By the way, the title of the novel is in reference to a sonnet that says "Lift not the painted veil which those who live call life."

Garbo gives us something more substantial than a mere veil. She gives us an Avatar of flesh.

How the West Was Won (1963)

Full disclosure: I love westerns. I have only realized this love in the last few years, so I'm not as versed in them as I'd like to be, but darn it, an evening spent with John Wayne is an evening well spent. More disclosure: I love John Wayne. I mean, come on. He's John Wayne. Whenever he's onscreen, I feel safe. He's going to get me through any trouble that may ensue.

So let me just gush about this film. I completely, accidentally stumbled upon "How The West Was Won" 1963 the other day and oh boy, was I thrilled! Here is one of only TWO narrative films in history made with the "Cinerama" process (the other being "The Wonderful World of the Brothers Grim" 1962) which had one camera with three strips of film, resulting in an epic surround-scene panoramic view. And if you saw it in a theatre, it would have to be outfitted with a special projection screen that's actually dozens of vertical strips of screen all angled toward the audience to reduce glare and reflection from the curved viewing space. What the very F.

Anyway, this proved an incredibly difficult process, both during filming and during screenings for audiences. There was some kind of widescreen format war going on in the 50s and 60s when the production companies were trying out new ways to draw audiences out of their comfortable easy chairs in front of their shiny new TV sets to see EPIC EVENT MOTION PICTURES. The ultra-wide formats that won out were cameras that used only one film strip with a larger aspect ratio. The 1959 version of "Ben Hur" for example, used 70mm film, as opposed to the standard 35mm film, like in any Marvel superhero movie you see these days. My absolute favorite, "Lawrence of Arabia" 1962 was also in 70mm, as was "The Sound of Music" 1965.

It is more costly to film and project with 70mm, but it is of very high resolution and quality. Home VHS and DVD formats could never dream of offering the true original resolution of these films, but if you picked up a Blu-Ray of "Lawrence of Arabia" and watched it on a nice big TV, you could pretty much expect to see the quality 70mm carries. It's very rarely used now, especially since the advent of digital projection systems. When Sir Ken Branagh's "Hamlet" 1996 was filmed in 70mm, that was only the third time 70mm was used since 1970, and it's only been used four times since "Hamlet." For reals.

Back to THE WEST. This film is essentially five stories told between the 1830s to the 1880s about a single extended family and how they managed to survive one of the most exciting and tumultuous eras of American history. It really has to be seen to be believed, as it is far too complex and beautiful a film to miss. Even on the flatscreen of your TV, you ain't never seen anything like it before, I swear. Just look at it. There's so much real estate on that frame. It's ridiculous.

So, to suck you in, I'll just give you some tidbits. Like, why does Jimmy Stewart have a terrible mullet haircut?

But look! Gregory Peck (GREGORY PECK!) is made of sex!

And fricken Russ "Riff" Tamblyn is a fricken Confederate deserter!

Princess Leia's mom is in fluffy knickers!

Henry Fonda in fringe! Woohoo!

You haven't seen such gripping Civil War footage since that Ken Burns documentary that you watched in middle school that was longer than the war itself! (Ok, sarcasm, but really, as much as I learned to love Ken Burns in my adult life, this is way more fun to see)

Finally, John Wayne is General William Tecumseh Sherman! 

OMG look at all that! Why aren't you finding this on Netflix or something right now?! 

You are wrong NOT to see this.