Jew Eat Yet?

Pay Your Damn Rent!

Earlier this year I mentioned a theory put forth by a popular radio commentator that the older you get, the more conservative you become. He said that when we’re young we all tend to be more liberal but that this starts to change once we hit 40. I found his argument condescending and offensive and considered myself living proof that age did not always move people towards the right. But now I’m wondering…is there any truth to this guy’s theory?

On Sunday I took Leah to see the movie “Rent.” We’ll get into how appropriate it is to take a ten-year-old to a movie about heroin addicts, hookers, and drag queens, but first I want to look at what a different take I had on the story compared to when I first saw the Broadway play nearly 10 years ago. In June of 1996 I was in New York on business and I was able to score a ticket to the hottest play running at that time. “Rent” had only been open for a month but the buzz on the play was tremendous and it was SRO every night. Somehow I got a seat at the back of the theatre and settled back to see what all the fuss was about. From the opening licks on the electric guitar I was hooked. I was completely bowled over by the energy, exuberance, and raw talent of the young cast and I was swept away by the tragic yet ultimately affirming story (based on the characters and events in Puccini’s “La Boheme”) of a bunch of struggling artists living in New York’s East Village, many of whom were HIV positive. I remember calling my then-wife Sophie during intermission. She was back in L.A. with our daughter who was a year and a half. I stood at a payphone (this was in pre-cell phone days) and went on and on about how the play was unlike anything I had ever seen on a New York stage. The second act only increased my enthusiasm for the show. I watched Roger finally come to terms with his past, Collins  deal with the loss of Angel, the only person he’d ever loved, Mimi fall into the depths of her addiction and come close to death, and Mark Cohen finally step out from behind his 16mm camera and face life with all its pains and joys. I loved these characters and reserved all of my contempt for antagonist/landlord Benjamin Coffin III.

The last time I’d been that floored in a theatre was 20 years earlier when I happened to see one of the first performances of “A Chorus Line” on Broadway (note to new readers: I’m not gay but you’d never know it from my cultural references—my artistic sensibilities are queerer than those of “Rent’s" drag queen heroine, Angel Dumott Schunard). It’s hard to remember today how ground-breaking plays like “A Chorus Line” and “Rent” were when they first opened. “A Chorus Line” played at New York’s Shubert Theatre for a whopping 15 years, slowly transforming itself from a performance that took your breath away to one that was geared to busloads of Japanese tourists. The horrible 1985 movie version did further damage to the Pulitzer Prize-winning play’s mystique.

“Rent” is now entering its second decade on Broadway and also won the Pulitzer Prize and Tony Award for Best Musical. But the play no longer holds the shock value it had when it opened in the mid-90s. Like “A Chorus Line,” it took ten years for the movie version to get made. But incredibly, almost the entire original Broadway cast was reassembled for the film. This is unheard of in stage-to-screen transfers, especially since the actors are all ten years older and none of them have become box office draws. Idina Menzel (Maureen) did go on to win a Tony for “Wicked,” her real-life husband Taye Diggs (Benny) has starred in several films and TV shows, and Jesse L. Martin  (Tom Collins) is a regular on ‘Law and Order,” but none of them are household names. I think it’s fantastic that the producers took a chance on bringing these talented folks back together and permanently capturing their performances on film. The creator of “Rent,” Jonathan Larson, died on the night of the very first preview on Broadway and these cast members have felt bonded ever since. Only two of the original actors did not return. Tracie Thoms took over the part of Joanne from Fredi Walker who agreed with the producers that she was simply too old to play the role. And Daphne Rubin-Vega, who was an electrifying Mimi, was pregnant when filming began so Rosario Dawson was cast in the role. In some ways Dawson’s presence in the film is the most authentic of all, having spent years as a squatter in a broken-down building on Avenue A with her impoverished mother. Dawson said that when the play first came out she refused to go see it. She had lived that life and didn’t think there was anything to sing about. But she eventually changed her tune and is superb in the film. Despite the passing of ten years, the rest of the cast seemed very faithful to the characters they had created. But watching the film I realized that my own take on some of the characters had changed dramatically.

As the ex-roommate of the struggling artists, Benjamin Coffin III had married rich and with his father-in-law’s help had purchased the 100-year-old decrepit building they’d all been living in. Benny planned to restore the building to its former glory and open up a Cyber Arts studio on the ground floor where his friends could make their art and actually see some profits. The upper floors would be turned into high-end condos that would pay for the studio and allow his friends to live there for free. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. Where I had once seen Benny as a villain trying to oppress the noble artists, I now saw him as the most mature character in the story. Benny had more patience than I would have had in his position—the residents of the building he now owned hadn’t paid any rent in months. As they sing in the title song:

We’re not gonna pay
We’re not gonna pay
Last year’s rent
This year’s rent
Next year’s rent.

“Right on!” I cheered in 1996. “Why the hell not?” I spewed in 2005. The movie starts with eviction notices plastered up all over the building. The residents, including Mark, Roger, and Mimi burn these notices and make  bonfires in the middle of their apartments. Oy, watch those gorgeous hardwood  floors, guys! They then sing about their ex-friend:

What happened to Benny
What happened to his heart
And the ideals he once pursued?

What is wrong with his current ideals? As long as Benny allows these people to live there for free he is just enabling their irresponsible behavior. Stop complaining and get a job, people! The only characters in the play who seem to have decent-paying jobs are Maureen’s lover Joanne who is a lawyer and Tom Collins who is a college professor. When Mark Cohen gets a job in television he is seen as a sell-out and eventually quits. Mimi works as an S&M stripper at the Cat Scratch Club in order to get money for her next fix. Maybe it’s because these actors are now all in their mid to late-30s that the starving artist routine seems a little stale. Or is it just me who has changed? There’s a whole range of cinematic characters for whom my former contempt has changed into empathy with the passing of the years. Lazar Wolf from “Fiddler on the Roof,” (he only wanted to provide for Tzeitel),  the Wicked Witch from “The Wizard of Oz” (hey, her sister was just murdered—how would you feel about some brat who killed someone in your family even if it was an accident!), Mrs. Robinson from “The Graduate” (why would she want her daughter to date the man she was having an affair with?), Give me a few more years and I might develop defense strategies for Lord Voldemort and Darth Vader.

I don’t understand all the contempt for parents in “Rent.” It would be one thing if these characters had been physically or mentally abused but in this case the parents' biggest sins are being annoying suburbanites. Mark’s parents call from Scarsdale on Christmas Day to leave him a sweet message after which he tells Roger that this is why he has to live in New York even if he’s starving—anything to get away from them. Huh? I guess that’s another reason my patience now runs thin with this group—except for Angel and Mimi, these are not people who, like actress Rosario Dawson, came from dire circumstances where they had to do all sorts of things to survive, these are privileged upper middle class kids who were given everything they wanted and now seem like spoiled post-adolescents playing at being grungy as if that will increase their street cred as artists.

I used to play the soundtrack to “Rent” in my car when Leah was little and it was the first of many scores she memorized. Her favorite songs at the age of three were the ones that Mimi sang. “Light My Candle” includes such Mister Rogers-friendly lines as:

They say that I have the best ass
Below 14th Street,
Is it true?

Mimi’s other song, Leah’s all-time favorite, was called “Out Tonight” and begins:

Whats the time?
Well it’s gotta be close to midnight
My body's talking to me
It say,’Time for danger’
It says ‘I wanna commit a crime
Wanna be the cause of a fight
Wanna put on a tight skirt
And flirt with a stranger!’

Please don’t call the social workers. When you think about it, are those lyrics really more offensive than Barney’s theme song? Okay, maybe they are, but Leah didn’t really know what she was singing. I never took her to the play but when she heard the movie was coming out she was dying to see it. Not having learned my lesson after my recent over-explanation of “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” I again attempted to prepare Leah for the challenging content of the film. “Dad,” she sighed impatiently, “I’m not going to become a drug addict because I see one in a movie.” Indeed, I have to give director Chris Columbus credit for not glamorizing any of the characters’ vices—there’s nothing attractive about the drug use that is seen throughout the film. On the other hand, I will also say that Rosario Dawson performed “Out Tonight” so perfectly and was so unbelievably hot that I could barely bring myself to look over at my daughter. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring her to this film after all. But then seeing how moved she was by Angel’s death and the rest of the characters’ reactions to that made me think it was all worth it.

I realized halfway through the film that Leah was very confused about whether Angel (the very talented Wilson Jermaine Heredia) was a boy or a girl. I tried to explain it to her quietly but she just didn’t get it. Finally, I had to practically shout from our first row seats in the Cinerama Dome, “Angel is a boy who likes to dress up like a girl!” which she accepted without question. Frankly, she seemed more confused by the trailer we saw for the upcoming “Memoirs of a Geisha.” Throughout the long preview (why do they have to show the whole damn film in previews nowadays?), Leah kept whispering, “Dad, what’s a geisha?” Finally, on her third query and not wanting to get into a long discussion about it in the theatre, I whispered back, “Someone who has to entertain men but doesn’t have a choice.” Oy, how’s that for a twisted euphemism?

At the end of “Rent,” Leah said how much she loved the movie but that she’d like to see it again in a few years when she’d be able to understand more of what was going on. Ah, the innocence of youth…thank God!

So have I become “The Man” in my middle age, viewing everything through a more conservative lens? I hope not, and yet I do realize that getting older allows me to see many things differently. I would still enjoy hanging out with the likes of Mark, Roger, Maureen, Mimi, Collins, and Angel, but in addition to hearing about their new art installations or performance art pieces, I’d also like to give them a little career counseling over our chai lattes. And then, to quote the most famous song from “Rent,” they can start measuring their years in paychecks and insurance premiums instead of just sunsets, midnights, and cups of coffee.

I do recommend this film for its vitality, heart, and some great performances. Just bring a healthy dose of cynicism with you to counter-balance the idealized homage to “la vie boheme.”

To leather, to dildos
To Curry Vindaloo
To Huevos Rancheros
And Maya Angelou
To Sontag, to Sondheim
To anything taboo
To Uta, to Buddha,
Pablo Nerudo, too
Why Dorothy and Toto
Went over the rainbow
To blow off Auntie Em…
La Vie Boheme!

Let Nothing You Dismay

Every year around this time someone accuses me of being a Christmas curmudgeon. This has nothing to do with the fact that I’m Jewish and, in theory, don’t celebrate the holiday. Let’s face it, unless you’re holed up in a yeshiva or an Islamic madrasa, Christmas is largely a secular orgy that affects Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike. It’s basically impossible to avoid. I’d be thrilled if it were more focused on Christ (despite the fact that the birth of the person we know as Jesus had nothing to do with December 25th). As the Christmas party compilations start ramping up with Rudolph, Santa, Frosty, and sleigh bells (those snow-based sleighs must have been all the rage in the desert towns of Bethlehem and Nazareth), I’ve always been the one screaming for the holy infant, so tender and mild. Despite the fact that my elementary school was about 70% Jewish, we were hurled into the Christmas season every year with full gusto, separation of Church and State be damned. I can only imagine what the Holocaust survivor parents of my Jewish classmates thought when we’d arrive home from school belting out the tunes we spent most of the day singing in our public school:

Long lay the world
In sin and error pining
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth…
Oh n-i-i-i-i-i-i-ght Divine,
Oh night, when Christ was born.

But our parents never did complain, as opposed to today’s hysterical climate where uttering the words “Merry Christmas” in a public school seems to be on par with burning a cross on the playground and forcing all the Jewish children to take a loyalty oath to the Pope. I’m not saying that I want my daughter to spend the next month in her class genuflecting to the Baby Jesus, but I don’t think mentioning the word “Christmas” in her presence will cause her to renounce her faith and take up residence in a Franciscan nunnery.

But back to the Grinch libel that is levied upon me every year. It is just not true. As proof, I offer up the tickets I purchased months ago for the December 23rd presentation of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” at the South Coast Repertory. Nothing warms the cockles of my heart more than watching the transformation of Ebenezer Scrooge from miserly dictator to loving benefactor. I am all for holiday songs, movies, plays, cookies, recitals, meals, and family gatherings. But I will NOT, under any circumstances, set foot in a shopping mall between now and January. Okay, that’s a lie, I might attend a Christmas tree lighting or an outside ice skating rink (always an odd site in balmy Los Angeles) but you won’t find me laden down with shopping bags and doing the “whadja get” rap (Whadja get Uncle Harry? Whadja get Cousin Sally? Whadja get the UPS guy? Whadja get? Whadja get?). Leah and I went to see the new Harry Potter movie yesterday and the streets were already filled with armies of consumers trudging along with gigantic shopping bags filled with crap they can’t afford and no one needs. It’s not that I’m cheap—you don’t want to know the money I spend each year on holiday-themed meals and activities. I have no problem with giving and receiving gifts, why would I? But I hate, loathe, and despise the heavy-handed tactics employed by the Mega-Conglomerates to empty our wallets and increase our stress to lethal levels in the name of Jesus Christ. I realize that our economy might sink even further into the toilet if my yuletide boycott of Corporate America were to catch on, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay to stop the ever-increasing insanity. I know that instead of just kvetching about it, I should be offering alternatives including heartwarming ways to spread Christmas cheer and meaningful volunteering opportunities to help the less fortunate. Oh, humbug, you can look those up on your own.

I think the reason my holiday moaning is beginning earlier than usual is because of my disappointment over the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Leah was so excited to watch it this year that she wanted to wake up Thursday morning at 6:00 am to see it live from New York instead of waiting for the delayed West Coast feed. I convinced her to hold tight until later in the morning and then settled in with her to watch the parade which was always my favorite way to usher in the holiday season. Within 10 minutes, though, Leah and I had reached the same conclusion: what a load of CRAP! I realize that the Macy’s parade was always full of the corporate shilling that I was just complaining about, but it was such a fun tradition that I forgave them everything. I loved seeing the gigantic character balloons such as Underdog or Bullwinkle floating towards Herald Square, and listening to the often out-of-tune marching bands. I enjoyed seeing the range of celebrities from Art Linkletter to Anna Maria Alberghetti to the cast of “The Munsters” freezing their asses off as they waved to the fans from their vehicles and I looked forward to the thematic floats and the repartee from the on-camera TV hosts.

But continuing its rapid freefall to the Dark Side, Macy’s has transformed the parade into something that is nearly unwatchable. First of all, there seemed to be an annoying commercial break every 5 to 7 minutes. Second, the parade was completely taken over as a promotional tool by its sponsoring network, NBC. After every commercial break we had to endure interviews with the asinine stars of new NBC sitcoms I’d never heard of. The actors had nothing interesting to say about the parade, the holidays, their shows, or anything else, and it was simply a blatant attempt to get the large viewing audience to prop up the lousy NBC lineup. Hideous. A few of the current Broadway shows had floats and performed numbers which could have been good but now ALL performances in the parade are pre-recorded and lip synched, often very badly, providing even more of an artificial feel to the festivities. I hate to single anyone out, but Michael Feinstein, who I admire greatly as a Gershwin expert and supporter of the old standards, was particularly chilling as he belted out his non-Gershwin number with such a twisted fake smile on his face that even Leah put her pillow over her head. He was followed by “American Idol” winner Carrie Underwood (can someone explain to me how she ever won a singing competition?) who was equally frightening. Feinstein and Underwood were like a modern-day Joseph and Magda Goebbels, their preprogrammed performances sending out some kind of hynotic suggestion to the masses to start the Death March towards the nearest Macy’s.

The hosts of the parade, NBC “Today Show” stars Matt Lauer and Katie Couric, read every single word off the TelePrompter and sounded as spontaneous as the Abraham Lincoln automaton at Disneyland. The low point of any Macy’s Parade, past, present, or future, came when Matt Lauer was introducing a truly terrible high school rap group from New Jersey. Hearing the whitest man in the world using phrases like “gettin’ jiggy” and announcing that the high schoolers were about to “busta move” made me involuntarily put my hands up to my ears and start praying that my tympanic membranes would not burst in protest. The one spontaneous thing that did happen at the parade was not covered at all by the robot-like hosts. Because of the blustery winds, a giant red M&M balloon crashed into a lamppost causing pieces of it to fall off and seriously injure a woman and her 11-year-old daughter. While this happened right in front of them and ambulances were soon on the scene, Katie and Matt just stuck with their cloying script and the producers switched to footage from last year’s parade. Outrageous. The two people needed stitches but they’re going to be okay, thank goodness. Can you imagine the humiliation of being killed by a wayward M&M?

Oy, it’s not even December yet, and listen to me. Not only am I kvetching my head off, the holidays are already turning me mean. Sorry Michael, Carrie, Matt, and Katie, I know it’s not entirely your fault that you’ve sold your souls to the devil. We did have a wonderful Thanksgiving and my brined maple-basted turkey was a big hit. I swear I’m going to just focus on the positive aspects of the holidays from here on out. Well…at least for a few days.

Is There a Holiday for Kvetching?

I know I should be writing an inspiring Thanksgiving post like so many bloggers will be doing this week, detailing all of the things for which I am grateful. God knows I do feel filled with gratitude for so many aspects of my life. Is it my natural rebelliousness, then, that makes me want to bitch and moan on the very day that everyone else is thanking the universe? Perhaps it’s the specter of the Evil Eye that prevents me from engaging in unabashed expressions of thankfulness. Or possibly just my wild mood swings which have been running rampant all week. Will heavy doses of tryptophan tomorrow exacerbate those? I think the real reason for my need to complain is that kvetching and gratitude are somehow so interconnected in my Jewish psyche that I simply can’t do one without the other.

While I do have issues with the Christmas hysteria that is about to swallow up the Western hemisphere, I really do like Thanksgiving. I’m looking forward to our gathering with family and friends and my 18-lb. organic free range turkey is brining as we speak. I have great memories of the Thanksgivings of my youth, most spent at my grandparents’ Lake Shore Drive apartment in Chicago. Some orthodox Jews don’t make a big deal out of such a secular holiday but my family always went at it whole hog, if you’ll pardon the expression. My grandmother would buy a kosher turkey and baste it with schmaltz (no butter allowed with meat dishes in a kosher home). We’d eat most of the traditional foods except for the particularly goyishe dishes like green bean casserole with Durkee’s fried onions on top, and it was a fun time for the most part. I don’t remember ever engaging in any formal expression of thanks, though, I think we were too busy stuffing our gullets. The four-day weekend was always a treat and, being the pop culture addict that I was, I always looked forward to the Thanksgiving-themed episodes of my favorite TV shows.

Who can forget the “Bewitched” where Aunt Clara, eager to see her Pilgrim friends on Thanksgiving Day, accidentally transports the Stephens family and neighbor Gladys Kravitz back to 17th century Plymouth. Ironically, it is Darrin the mortal who gets accused of being a witch when someone sees him lighting a match. Soon he is on trial for witchcraft with none other than Miles Standish presiding. Only Aunt Clara has the power to get them out of there but she can’t remember the spell. Samantha acts as Darrin’s defense attorney (as if that would have been allowed in the 17th century) and successfully gets him off just as Clara whisks them back to their home at 1164 Morning Glory Circle.

Do you remember the episode of “The Brady Bunch” where Greg directs a film about the First Thanksgiving starring his entire family? (I was hopelessly in love with Eve Plumb’s Jan Brady at the time—she had just gotten her braces off and I thought she looked so cute in her Pilgrim gear.) There was also a memorable Thanksgiving episode of “All in the Family” in which all hell breaks lose when Mike Stivic informs Archie during dinner that they have no intention of baptizing their son Joey or exposing him to religion at all. Whenever I see old episodes of that show I realize how my own sensibilities are changing. Archie Bunker may have been a bigot, but at least he was honest about it and he underwent the biggest transformation over the years. Rob Reiner’s Meathead was such a knee-jerk liberal that his point of view now comes across as shrill and insincere. No wonder he and Gloria eventually divorced.

I enjoyed “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” in which Charlie Brown invites the whole gang over for a Thanksgiving feast prepared by Snoopy and Woodstock. When they make toast and popcorn for dinner, the children are horrified and they blame Charlie Brown. It is only Marcie’s impassioned speech about the true meaning of Thanksgiving that saves the day (and prevents Charlie Brown from being completely ostracized). I never identified that much with the wise-beyond-their-years Linus and Marcie. I was more like self-deprecating Charlie Brown with a strong dose of Peppermint Pattie’s surly cluelessness thrown in for good measure.

I remember at least two Thanksgiving episodes of my favorite 1970s show, “The Waltons.” In the first, John-Boy has an accident in the sawmill that causes severe vision problems just as he’s supposed to take the scholarship exam for college. Turns out he needs major surgery or he might go blind which causes all sorts of Turkey Day drama. In the subplot, the moonshine-making Baldwin sisters have enlisted Jason Walton’s help to whip up a new batch of “the recipe” to send to President Roosevelt as a Thanksgiving gift and the dotty sisters get it in their head that they want to adopt Jason which of course does not sit well with Jason’s parents’ John and Olivia. The other Thanksgiving episode is one of those reunion movies in which the characters were catapulted into the future with no regard for the chronology of the original series. This movie takes place in November 1963. John-Boy is now a TV news reporter and you can only guess what traumatic national event he covers in Dallas that month, just before Thanksgiving.

I can’t remember whether “The Partridge Family” ever had a Thanksgiving episode, but Mrs. Partridge, aka Shirley Jones, has resurfaced this month to beg Americans to forsake their traditional turkey dinner. “I have a special fondness for birds—and not just partridges,” says Jones in a new video produced by People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “All birds feel pain and fear,” she says. I’ll be kind and not describe the images of turkey farms in this video considering most of us have yet to shove our birds into the oven. I hope animal lovers will forgive me when I say how grateful I am that we will NOT be feasting on “Tofurky” tomorrow, as Jones suggests. At least our turkey didn’t spend its life in a cramped cage—it got to roam free and eat wholesome grains before someone wrung its neck for our dinner table. Oh, Shirley. Don’t you remember the “Partridge Family” episode in which you were all dressed up in chicken suits hawking fried chicken?

Oh God, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Taking another sidetrip into the cathode ray tube that doubles as my brain to avoid looking at my own problems in the here and now. I guess I don’t feel like publicly kvetching on Thanksgiving after all. Let’s just say it’s been a challenging time for me lately as I come to terms with the fact that my fear-based way of looking at the world is no longer serving me very well, in fact it’s driving me batty—something’s gotta change. When I first started therapy I thought that awareness was 9/10 of the battle. As soon as I started realizing what I was doing to cause pain to myself and others, I’d be able to stop doing it and all would be resolved, right? Not hardly. Being aware of negative behavior patterns IS a necessary step towards growth, but when you achieve this awareness without yet having the ability to substitute those patterns with something healthier, it actually feels worse (at first) than being unaware of the behaviors to begin with. Does that make any sense or am I starting to spout New Age mumbo jumbo? I realize that it’s hard to talk about my “issues” without really getting into them which I can’t bear to do right now—I have too many vegetables to cut. Besides, all this negative talk so does not fit my Blog Character!

As I sink into all the good parts of the Thanksgiving holiday, I will also express a heap of gratitude to everyone who has ever stopped by this blog, even if was just to search out things like “mary ellen walton nude,” “six feet under female rabbi,” “the blisters chicago band tweedy,” and “one tree hill lesbian kiss” (all real searches that led to my site in the past hour). I appreciate every hit and every comment, and every opportunity to blabber on and on about topics that I find interesting. And now on to the mass genocide of the Meleagris gallopa, better known as the much maligned (according to Shirley Jones) Thanksgiving turkey.

10 Good Reasons to Walk the Line

1. This is the best biopic Hollywood has produced in decades. I’ve always been a sucker for movies about singer/songwriters but let’s be honest—most of them are pretty awful. The worst scenes are those in which the person is supposedly writing his or her most well known song, always in a single sitting. I remember watching a scene in a mediocre film about Cole Porter in which he comes up with one of his biggest hits: “Night and…night and…let’s see…Night and DAY, yes that’s it…you are my love…no, that’s not right…hmm, you are the ONE! Yes!” There are none of those ridiculous moments in the exquisite new film “Walk the Line.” Instead of a lot of scenes showing Johnny Cash and June Carter writing their biggest hits, we see them living the songs with such passion that it’s only natural their experiences morph into the now famous lyrics. If there was a single false note in this film I couldn’t find it. Kendall, who is highly critical of most films made after 1950, liked it so much that she literally wanted to stay and see it over again. I haven’t seen her that excited about a movie since the original “Thin Man.”

2. And the Oscar goes to…Joaquin Phoenix. The cool thing about a film career that starts when you’re a kid is that you can track the growth of that person as an artist. I’ve enjoyed Phoenix’s on-screen presence ever since I saw him at age 15 in Ron Howard’s “Parenthood” (when his first name was Leaf). Apparently Johnny Cash hand-picked Joaquin for the role before he died in 2003 and he couldn’t have chosen better. Just like Sissy Spacek’s great turn as Loretta Lynn in “Coal Miner’s Daughter” (a wonderful movie that was cut from the same cloth as “Walk the Line”), Phoenix doesn’t try to impersonate Johnny Cash, he simply inhabits him. This role has Oscar-bait written all over it and for once I will cheer the Academy voters. I just hope that Jamie Foxx’s win for “Ray” last year doesn’t hurt Phoenix’s chances (I can imagine the Academy folks worrying about choosing two portrayals of real-life singers in a row), especially since “Walk the Line” is a way better film than “Ray” in my opinion. A major plot point in “Walk the Line” involves the early death of Johnny Cash’s older brother Jack. This traumatic event shaped Cash’s life and career and there are many poignant scenes where Phoenix tries to express what his older brother meant to him. It’s a measure of his great performance that it took me until this morning to realize the double poignancy in hearing Joaquin Phoenix, who also lost his older brother in tragic circumstances, utter those words.

3. You will start listening to great music that you never paid attention to. I admit it, I’ve never been a big Johnny Cash fan although I used to watch his TV show in the early 1970s that I believe was taped at the Ryman Auditorium. My main memory of Cash back then was the novelty song “A Boy Named Sue” which was written by Shel Silverstein of all people. But now I’m very excited about catching up on Cash’s oeuvre. I’m sure many of the die-hard Johnny Cash fans will be irritated by the sudden trendiness of Cash’s music and feel superior that they were with him all along. So be it, I’m just happy to have the belated opportunity to discover his music.

4. Reese Witherspoon is back. Reese Witherspoon’s performance in the 1999 film “Election” blew me away. I remember walking out of the theater excited about this young actress’s future and the excellent performances we’d all get to witness. So I was saddened when she seemed to be sucked into the Hollywood juggernaut. The bigger she became, the more I missed the flash and charisma of her earliest performances. She always gave it her all but let’s just say that “Legally Blonde 2” was no “Citizen Kane.” How great that June Carter Cash, who died just a few months before Johnny Cash in 2003, also got to pick the woman who would play her in the film and that she had the infinite wisdom to see that Witherspoon had the spunk, vulnerability, and talent to pull off the job. Despite Phoenix’s near perfect performance, Reese Witherspoon comes close to walking away with the entire picture. In a part that could have been reduced to a country music caricature, Witherspoon conveys the complexities of a woman who is deeply sympathetic but light years away from being a saint. Academy voters, take note! As for the on-screen chemistry between Phoenix and Witherspoon—WOW! Their troubled but passionate courtship is so believable that I found myself checking the Internet to see if Witherspoon had dumped hubby Ryan Phillipe yet. (She hasn’t.) Can I give a grateful shout-out to director James Mangold for ending the film with Cash and Carter’s marriage in the late 1960s? I’m so glad they left us wanting more, more, more, and didn’t succumb to the tendency to plaster Phoenix and Witherspoon with age lines and blue hair rinses.

5. Mama Maybelle Carter. I went through a brief country music phase during college. One of my favorite local bands back then was called Special Consensus. I used to go hear them perform at the famous Clearwater Saloon (where my sister began the career that would eventually get her dubbed the “doyenne of the Chicago music scene”). We’d sing along to tunes like “Rocky Top,” “Salty Dog,” and “Glendale Train,” feeling like we were at the Grand Ole Opry and not on Lincoln Avenue listening to a bunch of mostly Jewish pre-med students who had never been south of Joliet. I made a film about the band and in the process became familiar with the famous Carter family and their wonderful matriarch, Mother Maybelle. Maybelle is played deliciously in the film by Sandra Ellis Lafferty and though her time on camera is brief she brings such a presence to the role that you’d swear she had many more scenes. I came home and immediately started listening to some bona fide Mama Maybelle recordings. Damn, that woman could sing.

6. Shooting the breeze with Jerry Lee, Elvis, and Waylon. When they start trotting out other superstar celebrities in these biopics, the groan factor can increase to intolerable levels and be so distracting that you forget what you’re watching. That woman is NO Diana Ross, you think. Are they kidding? That actress doesn't look a thing like Priscilla Presley. Buddy Holly? I think not! One delightful exception to this rule was Beverly D’Angelo’s pitch-perfect performance as Patsy Cline in “Coal Miner’s Daughter,” so real and poignant (yet without a hint of sentimentality) that you couldn’t help but cry for Sissy Spacek’s Loretta Lynn when she finds out her best friend is killed in a plane crash. “Walk the Line” contains not one, not two, but a gaggle of musician/actors playing the hugely famous singers with whom Johnny Cash toured at the beginning of his career. Standouts are Waylon Payne as a rip-roaring Jerry Lee Lewis, Tyler Hilton as a very young Elvis Presley, and Shooter Jennings playing his own father Waylon. The actors imbibe these guys with such youthful zest and talent that you have no trouble imagining them turning into the superstar versions of themselves we would later come to know.

7. My sister’s friend is in the film and he’s terrific. When my sister told me that her friend Dan Miller (!) had a part in “Walk the Line,’ I thought I’d see his name in the closing credits as something like “Man in bar.” Instead, I was shocked to see him listed at the beginning of the film just after the leads and appearing in the opening shot at Folsom Prison. Dan plays Luther Perkins, Johnny Cash’s guitar player and one of the Tennessee Two. Formerly the frontliner for “Goober and the Peas” (a great band that played my sister’s Lounge Ax dozens of times), Miller now has a band called Blanche with his gorgeous wife Tracee Mae (who gets to appear briefly in the film as Luther’s wife Birdie Perkins). From everything I’ve seen and read, Miller nails his idol Luther Perkins perfectly. Truly inspired casting. Sue tells me that Dan Miller is a substitute teacher in Detroit when he’s not performing with his band. Sorry, Motor City students, but he won’t be there for long if Hollywood gets its way.

My brother-in-law Jeff opened twice for Johnny Cash, once in Uncle Tupelo and once with Wilco. June Carter Cash was at the Uncle Tupelo gig which was in Jeff's grungier days. After spending some time chatting with the band and being the perfect country mama, she said "I just want to take you boys home with me and give you a bath!"

8. Big hair ain’t so bad after all. One thing I really appreciate in a period film is authenticity and attention to detail. I remember reading about the making of “Gone With the Wind” and being impressed that costume designer Walter Plunkett was such a stickler that he insisted on a complete array of real Civil War-era undergarments for all of the actresses in the film, including the extras, even though none of these expensive items would be visible on screen. Similarly, there are stories of Vincente Minnelli breaking the bank to get actual 1903 light fixtures and other props for “Meet Me in St. Louis” even though the MGM art department could have whipped up decent facsimiles for a fraction of the cost. The costumes and set design in “Walk the Line” ring so true that you almost feel like you’re watching a documentary. Kudos should go to the hair and make-up people who resisted the urge to go nuts with the country music big hair. Reese Witherspoon’s hairstyles do get more voluminous with every stage appearance but it never approaches caricature. Joaquin Phoenix’s hair is dead on and Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley’s pompadours are flamboyant but never over the top. It’s so easy to make fun of the hairstyles of the 50s and 60s (my mother used to wear a beehive that increased her height by about a foot), especially in the South, but I think our sensibilities are changing. At least mine are. I used to cringe when I saw pictures of those tortured dos yet in “Walk the Line” I thought all the women looked smokin’ hot. C’mon Kendall, get out that teasing brush!

9. The film shows what “real” Christians are. After my recent experience with Jane Russell and some interesting discussions with a Christian blogger that I read, I am more interested than ever in the topic of religion and tolerance. There’s a great scene in “Walk the Line” in which June Carter is shopping in a department store not long after her first divorce. A sales clerk lashes into Carter, wondering how her parents even speak to her now that she’s brought disgrace on the entire family with her divorce which she calls an abomination to God. “Marriage is for life!” the saleslady screams. This is one of Reese Witherspoon’s finest moments in the film. We see her wince ever so slightly and then adopt the protective mantle of someone who’s been  in the public eye her entire life. “I’m sorry I let you down, ma’am,” she replies to the woman before continuing on her way. In contrast to the intolerant sales clerk, June’s mother Maybelle displays Christian values in the deepest possible sense. She knows Johnny Cash is trouble with a capital T and yet she also sees that he is a child of God who needs help. In one scene before he and June are married, Cash is having a total meltdown in front of June's family. Instead of whisking her daughter away from this madman, Maybelle encourages June to go to Johnny to comfort him. “I can’t go down there,” June says, shocked. “You’re already there, honey,” her mother replies, acknowledging the love that both Cash and Carter feel for each other despite the fact that Cash was at a lowpoint in his life. Maybelle Carter was a devoutly religious woman who did not cast stones at the imperfect people in her life. Now that’s a real Christian in my book!

10. Ring of Fire. I heard a fascinating NPR report a few months ago about this song written by June Carter Cash (I can’t find the link but you should look for it). They played Johnny Cash’s famous version, then June’s haunting take of her own song after many years of marriage, then her sister Anita’s rendition, then the one recorded by the entire Carter Family, and finally covers of the song from entertainers as diverse as Deborah Harry, Frank Zappa, and Olivia Newton-John. Talk about a song with legs. Carter wrote this song from the gut. It’s a none-too-subtle look at her tortured involvement with Johnny Cash and the pain she felt about having a relationship with someone who was married and as troubled as Cash was in the beginning of their tumultuous time together. While such a song could be parodied as country music hyperbole, Phoenix and Witherspoon are so good in their roles that they really earned the right to sing these lyrics at the end of the film. As we listen to June’s song we get a glimpse into all of the pain and joy that these two people experienced.

Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire.

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher.
And it burns, burns, burns
The ring of fire
The ring of fire.

The taste of love is sweet
When hearts like ours meet
I fell for you like a child
Oh, but the fire went wild.

Run, don’t walk, to “Walk the Line!”

My Favorite Right-Wing Republican

We took Leah to a screening of “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” this weekend at the Cinematheque which was followed by an in-person discussion with actress and former bombshell Jane Russell. Did you know that unlike today, many of the biggest stars in Hollywood in the 1950s were staunch Republicans? Jane Russell was right up there with Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, Lou Costello, June Allyson, Dick Powell, and Jimmy Stewart. During a speech in 2003, she announced that “these days I am a teetotaling, mean-spirited, right-wing, narrow-minded conservative Christian bigot, but not a racist.” Oy, Jane, Jane. The crowd at the Cinematheque would never have guessed she was any of those things based on her delightful Q&A after the film.

The woman is amazing. 84 years old and in great physical shape, sharp as a tack, and honest as all get out. Kendall and I are constantly going to these events where they drag out old movie stars and sometimes they seem so caught up in their own faded glory that you can tell they stopped being real people some time during the Truman administration. Not so, Jane Russell. Just like her character Dorothy Shaw in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” Russell is a straight-talkin’ babe. You get the feeling that she never bought her own publicity, which was a good thing in her case considering it was mostly focused on her famous knockers.

I was surprised to learn about the incredible work Jane Russell has done for the rights of adopted children. After a botched abortion left her unable to have kids, she adopted three children in 1950s but faced major hurdles in the process, especially when she tried to adopt a child overseas. She started working to change the laws, testifying before Congress, and was instrumental in the passage of the Federal Orphan Adoption Amendment of 1953. Since then, she helped pass legislation that allows single parents to adopt and makes it possible for children to cross state lines for adoptions. Her organization WAIF, which she retired from in the late 1990s, has placed over 50,000 children in homes. Whenever the studio sent her on a publicity tour, she spent much of her time in that area working for this cause. The other night whenever anyone tried to compliment her about her life’s work she just shrugged and said “That’s where God put me.” Normally such comments would make me cringe but Jane was so humble and sincere that I could see how her deep faith has guided her life in so many positive ways.

So what’s with the mean-spirited narrow-mindedness? She gave that speech when she was in the throes of a campaign to get prayer back in the schools and to allow the Ten Commandments to remain in public spaces such as courthouses. I don’t agree with either of those ideas, but neither issue makes me start frothing at the mouth as so many other items do in the agenda of the religious right.

Unlike many of her conservative colleagues, Russell is certainly no homophobe. She spent a lot of time in the Q&A waxing nostalgic over her openly gay choreographer in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” Jack Cole. She repeatedly called him a genius and said he was largely responsible for the success of the film since neither she nor Marilyn Monroe could dance a step when they started shooting. Jane seems to enjoy her status as a gay icon (I thought the two gay German guys in front of us were going to pass out from excitement at seeing their idol), and she commented on the bizarre bit of homoerotica in the film when she sings “Ain't There Anyone Here for Love” in the middle of a training session for the Olympic team. As dozens of beefy, near-naked studs go through their work-out moves, Jane darts in and out of their routines singing lines like “I like big muscles, and red corpuscles, I like a beautiful hunk of man.” The men ignore her completely and seem far more interested in each other as they gyrate in suggestive positions. How that scene ever got past the censors is beyond me.

Jane Russell was 32 when she made “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” and it is by far the best film of her career. Based on the novel by Anita Loos, it is the story of blonde, money-hungry Lorelei Lee (played by Marilyn Monroe) and her best friend, dark-haired, cynical Dorothy Shaw, who doesn’t give a whit about a man’s wallet but cares a great deal about other parts of him. Before the film started, and sounding like a Christian fundamentalist myself,  I was trying to warn Leah about the outrageous values that are promoted in the film (marrying someone for money, using sexuality to manipulate, etc.). During my elaborate explanation of the film’s twisted message,  Leah stopped me and said, “Dad, it’s a movie, a mooovie! It’s supposed to be fun, it’s not about real life.” Of course we all loved the film, especially seeing it up on the big screen in Technicolor that was so vivid you practically needed to wear sunglasses. Many of the film’s best lines would be considered appalling in a movie today.

Horny Man #1: If this boat goes down, which of the two girls (Monroe or Russell) would you  save?
Horny Man #2: Oh, those girls can’t sink.

Mr. Edmonds: Are you going to stand there and tell me that you’re not marrying my son for his money?
Lorelei (outraged): It’s true!
Mr. Edmonds: Then why are you marrying him?
Lorelei: I’m marrying him for YOUR money!

And of course, one of Marilyn's most famous songs:

He's your guy when stocks are high
But beware when they start to descend.
It's then that those louses
Go back to their spouses
Diamonds are a girl's best friend!

Hideous, right? But so, so good! Considering the fluff that it is, I think “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” is a near perfect film. To my feminist friends who are shocked and repulsed, I say go watch it in a movie theatre with 400 fans.

Jane Russell grew up in a deeply religious home with a mother who quoted from Scripture at every meal. How odd, then, that she ended up becoming famous as a sex symbol who pushed the envelope to such an extent that preachers were calling for boycotts of some of her early films. It wasn’t really her doing. Howard Hughes first caught sight of Jane in 1940 (she was working as a virtual receptionist in a Van Nuys podiatrist’s office) and signed her to a seven-year contract. But he was far more interested in showcasing her ample bust than he was in finding good roles for his new star. Hughes was obsessed with Russell’s breasts and she admitted that while the famous story of Hughes designing a special bra for her appearance in her first film, “The Outlaw,” is absolutely true, he never knew that she didn’t actually wear the bra on the screen. She found Hughes’ design for the first seamless bra uncomfortable so she just tossed it away and put tissues on the outside of her regular bra to smooth out the seams. Hughes never knew the difference. Some of the shots of Jane bending over in “The Outlaw” showed so much cleavage that it took Hughes three years to get the film past the censor board. In the meantime, he had her doing one publicity junket after another, most with the aim of wowing the crowds with her voluptuous boobs. As Bob Hope used to introduce her, “Here comes the two-and-only, Miss Jane Russell.”

Jane was a team player but she would only go so far in this constant exploitation of her body. She refused Hughes’ request to wear a bikini in “The French Line” (at that time, Russell told us, “only the bad girls in the south of France wore them”) but she did agree to wear a cut-out bathing suit and do a bump-and-grind number that was condemned by the Catholic League of Decency. The film was released in 3-D with Jane’s breasts jutting out so far into the audience that viewers would jerk their heads away for fear of being struck. What other film in history has such a tasteless tag line: “J.R. in 3-D: It’ll knock both your eyes out!” Following this film Jane marched into Hughes’ office and said “Howard! Enough with my breasts already!” The billionaire agreed to give it a rest. Jane was a consultant on last year’s “The Aviator” and said that if she and Hughes’ other old friends were allowed anywhere near the tycoon during those last crazy years they would have gotten him to a hospital whether he liked it or not.

Russell had many nice things to say about her Democratic co-star Marilyn Monroe (I wonder if they ever discussed politics). Though this was her first real starring role, Marilyn already had her own coach on the set and after every take she’d look at her instead of famed director Howard Hawks. Needless to say, Hawks was not pleased. But Jane and Marilyn got along great. One thing I was happy Leah was able to witness was the warm relationship in the film between the two leads. For my money I can’t think of a better cinematic depiction of girlfriends. Though wildly different in temperament and ambition, the two women loved each other and were fiercely loyal. The 1950s version of Thelma and Louise without the violence? Jane said that Marilyn was extremely sensitive. When she overheard Tommy Noonan, who played her boyfriend Gus in the film, tell a reporter that kissing Marilyn Monroe is like getting eaten alive, she ran off in tears. When she was too insecure to come out of her dressing room on some mornings, Jane would hightail it over there and tell her to get moving—the crew was waiting. Marilyn always obeyed. You get the impression that if no-nonsense Jane had been around more coddled, temperamental movie stars, there would have been far less histrionics on Hollywood sets.

I really like Jane Russell but I do find it a little hard to reconcile the woman we met the other night with the self-described “narrow-minded conservative Christian bigot.” Some of Russell's past affiliations I just have to ignore, like her involvement with Phyllis Schlafly’s dreaded Eagle Forum. Still, one quality I admire about this Good Ol’ Gal who has helped so many children around the world, is her ability to consider people as individuals, not just as labels that represent the values she’s against. Look at her great affection for frequent co-star, bad boy Robert Mitchum, who once spent time on a Georgia chain gang and was arrested in 1948 for marijuana possession. The prickly actor was never repentant and yet he and Christian conservative Jane got along famously. When asked to describe Jane Russell, Mitchum said, “An authentic original. She tells it like it is.” Louella Parsons called them "the hottest couple that ever hit the screen." In the closing line of their best film together, “His Kind of Woman,” Mitchum sums it up. He looks into Jane Russell’s eyes and says, “You could be a handy thing to have around the house.”

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

I wish I could show you the rest of this photo. My brother-in-law opened for the Rolling Stones last month and before the show they took a photo of Wilco with the Stones. When they sent the photo to the band they strictly forbade any online posting. (I can’t imagine why, considering there are about a trillion pictures of the Stones floating around the Internet.) Since I don’t want to get my sister in trouble (although this might anyway), I’m just posting this small section of the photograph showing Jeff with my nephews Spencer and Sammy. The fact that it is Keith Richards leaning on Spencer must send his C. Q. (cool quotient) permanently into the stratosphere. Especially since, unlike most nine year olds, Spencer actually knows and appreciates who Keith Richards is! Richards will turn 63 in a few weeks and while I used to think he looked quite ravaged, now that he’s older it works and he looks great.The best part of this photo, though, is the look of shock and wonder on six-year-old Sammy’s face as he gazes at Ron Wood. Wood is 58 but looks 28. He sports a rocker’s long shaggy haircut and is wearing a purple t-shirt, a bright red leather jacket that looks like something left over from the Stones’ 1973 tour, and tight black jeans. Despite their senior citizen status, the Rolling Stones have the bodies of 15-year-old boys. How do they do it? They sure don’t know from middle-aged spread. Ron Wood has a very mischievous look on his face and he has just jumped into a flamboyant pseudo-rockstar pose for the photo, thus producing the priceless look on Sammy’s face. On the other side of Wood stands a smiling Mick Jagger wearing a gold tuxedo jacket, his arms crossed in a bemused stance. Jagger turned 63 last July and he looks sort of like a kindly uncle here, provided you have a 63-year-old uncle with a 28-inch waist who can dance like Tina Turner. On the other side of Keith Richards is drummer Charlie Watts. He is the oldest member of the band at 64 and, while also being in fantastic shape, looks more his age than the others. He was battling throat cancer a year ago but is happily in remission. Watts is the only one with gray hair and he’s starting to look a bit like Star Trek’s George Takei.

I’m no Rolling Stones aficionado but it’s almost impossible not to be in awe of this group. They started performing in 1961 when I was two freaking years old and they are still going strong. My brother Bruce, who is five years older than me, was the most sophisticated rock fan in our house during the 1960s. I heard many of the Stones’ greatest hits wafting from his bedroom over the years and yet today I can still only name the classics like “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” “Brown Sugar,” “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “Beast of Burden,” “Honky Tonk Woman,” and my favorite, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”

I guess I was more of a Beatles man in my pre-teen years even though my first exposure to the Fab Four was via their 1965 cartoon series (who’s got the rights to those gems—I haven’t seen an episode in 40 years!). I do remember the hoopla of the Beatles’ appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show” when I was 5 and the insanity of those girls screaming through their entire performances. I studied the album cover of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” when I was 7 and was first in line to see “Yellow Submarine” when I was 8. I remember exactly where I was at age 10 when I heard that the Beatles were splitting up and of course I will never forget the exact moment ten years later when I first learned that John Lennon had been murdered. Listening to any song by the Beatles or the Stones immediately sends me back into my early childhood. How crazy is it that the Stones played at a venue a few blocks from our house just the other day and that Paul McCartney will be performing at the same place next week? I guess no crazier than Spencer and Sam Tweedy’s bonding with Keith Richards and Ron Wood!

I wish I could offer some deep esoteric insights on the music and careers of the Rolling Stones but I just wasn’t cool enough to have followed their development in anything but a superficial way. The reality is that I remember listening to bubble gum acts like “The Herman’s Hermits” (my sister had a huge crush on Peter Noone), “The Monkees,” and even the god-awful “Archies” (“Sugar, sugar…oh honey, honey…you are my candy girl, and you got me wanting you…”) way more than I listened to the Stones. How embarrassing is that? For that matter I spent more time listening to movie soundtracks when I was young than rock music. But I longed to be a rocker like my older brother who had two bands of his own: “The Inscrutable Ambiguity” and “The Psychotic Referendum.” I don’t remember if the bands were any good but I do remember Bruce's classmates Helene Lazowski, Robin Burack, and Cheryl Geisler sitting in our basement gazing at them like true groupies.

Despite the fact that I was a total nerd, I went through several periods where I at least tried to look the part of a rocker. I was the first person at our school (and possibly the last) to wear a Nehru jacket to class following the Beatles’ trip to India in 1968. Emerald green yet. I grew my hair halfway down my back, wore ripped jeans and peace signs to school, and even went through a scary punk phase in the 70s (not the music, just the clothes, I was probably listening to the Captain and Tennille at the time).

But just as I lived vicariously through my brother’s record collection in the 60s, my faux rocker wardrobes in the 70s, my sister’s ultra-hip rock club Lounge Ax in the 80s, and my brother-in-law’s growing success in the 90s, I can now turn to my young nephews and hope some of the cool rubs off on their uncle who suddenly looks like he could be Mick Jagger’s father. Oy.

No, you can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
And if you try sometime you find
You get what you need.

Update: Well, I didn't get in trouble for posting the photo (not that much anyway), but my sister is insisting that I correct the wrong dates in my mention of her late, lamented Lounge Ax. She and her partner Julia ran it from 1989 to 2000. It was such a great club, what a travesty that it was forced out of business. Perhaps one day it will rise like a phoenix somewhere else in Chicago. I'm trying to think if any of the Stones ever stopped by there but all I can remember is the time that Donny Osmond came in (can you see now why I'll never be cool?). Film fans will note that several scenes from the excellent film version of Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity" were shot at Lounge Ax so at least it's there for posterity.

Schlepping Over the Rainbow

Have you seen the brand new Collector’s Edition “Wizard of Oz” DVD? Even though I already have two other versions, this three-disc set is clearly a must-have. Besides a brilliant new transfer of the 1939 film, the set includes several silent versions of the Oz stories from 1910, 1914, and 1925 plus hours and hours of documentaries, featurettes, deleted scenes, and newsreels about the film. The new DVD happened to be released on October 25th which was Simchat Torah, a Jewish holiday that marks the completion of the weekly Torah readings and is considered the last of the High Holy Days. I mention that because it seemed to make a lot of sense to me.

For as long as I can remember, I thought that “The Wizard of Oz” was an important Jewish tale on par with Noah’s Ark or the Exodus from Egypt. The annual television broadcast of the MGM film was one of the Big Events of my childhood. My non-observant parents delivered us to my orthodox grandparents’ home on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive for all Jewish rituals. We had dinner at my grandparents’ every Friday night to welcome the Sabbath, we celebrated all the Jewish holidays there from Yom Kippur to Hanukkah, and we appeared on their doorstep each year for the viewing of “The Wizard of Oz.”

The once-a-year broadcast had all the earmarks of a Jewish celebration. The weeks before the event were filled with anticipation. What night would it fall on? What would we wear? What would we eat for dinner? My grandfather lorded over the evening as befitting the patriarchal leader of the clan. After dinner he took his position of honor in the overstuffed leather chair in the den which was lined with blond wooden bookshelves crammed with Jewish-themed texts. The family gathered around my grandfather in clusters as he warmed up the huge RCA console. My grandparents were the only people we knew who owned a color television set. Instead of thinking that this was the reason for our presence in their home on this night, I thought they owned the set so that we could properly observe the ritual broadcast.

Both of my grandparents provided commentary throughout the evening. Following Jewish custom, certain stories were repeated year after year. My grandmother talked about taking my five-year-old mother to the Oriental Theatre in downtown Chicago during the first few weeks of the film’s theatrical run. My grandfather then pointed out that on that very date, September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland and his remaining family members in the Polish town of Staszow began their rapid descent that culminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. It soon became impossible for me to disassociate the opening of “The Wizard of Oz” with the destruction of European Jewry. The film became a cinematic metaphor for the terror inflicted upon my people.

As we waited for the movie to begin, I inched closer to the set, as excited about watching the familiar tale as I was every Passover anticipating the annual reading about the Hebrew slaves overcoming bondage in ancient Egypt. During this pre-VCR, pre-DVD age, the airing of “The Wizard of Oz” was such a big deal that the evening was hosted by a celebrity who would appear before and after each commercial break to talk about the film. To me these stoic men—ranging from Richard Boone of “Have Gun Will Travel” to Dick Van Dyke to Danny Kaye—had a rabbinic presence. Their commentary flowed easily with my grandfather’s and evoked images of learned men discussing the weekly Torah portion in the synagogue.

As the opening credits neared, my anticipation reached a fever pitch. Lights were dimmed, dessert plates cleared, and all eyes focused on the set. From the first sight of the MGM lion I was transfixed, swept away in religious reverie. The early scenes of the film on Dorothy Gale’s Kansas shtetl were filmed in black-and-white, a bleak foreshadowing of the encroaching doom that would forever obliterate the Jewish way of life throughout Europe. The danger to the Jews first took the form of nasty Miss Gulch, a classic anti-Semite who wanted to take Dorothy’s precious dog to the authorities and “make sure he’s destroyed.”

Aunt Em and Uncle Henry, though outraged like many Jews who had to endure such indignities during the early years of Nazi influence, feel powerless to stop Miss Gulch and they hand the poor mutt over to certain death. Miraculously, the dog escapes and finds his way back to Dorothy’s loving arms. Dorothy realizes that evil still lurks around the corner and she tries to run away. By this time Miss Gulch’s rabid anti-Semitism has grown into a tornado of hate, sending Dorothy and her entire house up into the gale winds of the unknown. Her town and former life disappear as she lands in the mysterious land of Oz.

For the rest of the film, Dorothy makes her way through countless trials and tribulations on her determined quest to find her true home. During this perilous journey, the Wicked Witch of the West embodies the worst of Nazi tyranny—Hitler’s personal messenger sent to torment the innocent Jewess trapped in a strange land whose dangers she could not comprehend.

As I watched the film each year, I analyzed the religious affiliation and moral fiber of each character. With her long brown braids and simple gingham dress, Dorothy bore a striking resemblance to old pre-war photographs of my Aunt Gittel Chana in Poland. Dorothy was obviously a Jewish character with her longing for a better world “over the rainbow,” her reverence for animals and nature, and her eagerness to expose false idols such as the Wizard himself. The rest of the characters in the story eventually found their way into my “Who’s a Jew?” encyclopedia.

Glinda the Good Witch: Not a Jew. No Jewish woman with power would ever be so soft-spoken or be caught dead in that pink cinched-waist gown. Glinda represents the kind, benevolent aspects of European leadership that failed to take seriously the threat of darker forces lurking ahead. “You have no power here,” she says with a laugh to the Wicked Witch. Alas, Glinda underestimates the power of a charismatic figure who has the ability to incite old hatreds into mob violence.

The Munchkins: Jews. Short, odd-looking, clannish people who live apart from the Oz mainstream. The Munchkins cling to their own ways and depend on the good will of various Gentile authority figures for their survival.

Scarecrow: Jew. A wise old soul who values education above all else and tortures himself about not being smart enough. He probably got this neurosis from his never-satisfied parents. Always able to think on his feet, he nevertheless suffers from low self-esteem. A born mediator and an honest, loyal friend.

Tin Man: Not a Jew. With his kind and loving nature, the Tin Man is one of the Righteous Gentiles who would put his life on the line to protect his Jewish friend, but his unassuming nature and vulnerabilities often leave him frozen in fear as he faces his enemies. A generous nurturer whose sensitive side belies his physical strength.

Cowardly Lion: Jew. Though full of bravado and a loud bark when he feels backed into a corner, he is really a pussycat at heart, unable to harm a fly. A classic narcissist with unresolved sexual issues. A disappointment to his loved ones who wanted him to go into the family business but admired by his friends for his willingness to buck tradition and face his worst fears.

The Witch’s Guards: Not Jews. An elite army of evil who later claim they were “just following orders.” Gestapo henchmen who show no loyalty to their leader but switch allegiances whenever it suits their needs.

Emerald City is clearly the capital of Gentile Oz. As opposed to the strange little Munchkins or the odd-looking Scarecrow and Lion, the residents of Emerald City are perfect specimens of a Master Race. Though beautiful, graceful, and strong, they lack individuality and are easy prey to a charlatan who has delusions of grandeur and hopes that no one would pay attention to the man behind the curtain.

Certain scenes of “The Wizard of Oz” were so terrifying to me that I used to have Technicolor nightmares in which the Yellow Brick Road led straight to the gates of Auschwitz. There was one line in the movie that always troubled me. After Dorothy fails to hitch a ride back to Kansas in the Wizard’s hot-air balloon, Glinda reappears and casually announces that the girl has always had the power to return home. “But why didn’t you tell her?” demands an incredulous Scarecrow. “Because she wouldn’t have believed me,” replies the Good Witch. “She had to learn it for herself.”

This exchange used to send me into a rage of indignation. How could Glinda in good conscience let someone she cared about risk her life over and over again if she knew the secret that would send her to safety?

I now see this as the film’s most Jewish message of all. For thousands of years Jews have struggled as a people against forces that tried to destroy them or make them assimilate into the larger culture. Instead of succumbing to the waves of persecution or taking the easy way out, the tiny Jewish population thrived against all odds. It wasn’t powerful weapons or armies that allowed Jews to survive, it was their own quiet knowledge of their worth as a people.

Before returning to Kansas, Glinda asks Dorothy to recount what she’s learned during her adventures in Oz. “I learned that if I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard, because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it in the first place.” That’s it, Dorothy. Mazel tov!

What’s Alito’s Favorite Movie?

I know it’s completely insane that the one thing that comforted me during John Roberts’ Senate confirmation hearings to become Chief Justice was to learn that his favorite films were “Doctor Zhivago” and “North by Northwest.” He blurted that out following a bizarre line of questioning by Senator Chuck Schumer, and not only was it one of the only questions that Roberts answered head-on, I still maintain that you can tell a lot about a person by what films they like. I’m not suggesting that a familiarity with the MGM film archive should become the new litmus test for Supreme Court nominees or replace questions about the person’s previous record, understanding of the Constitution, or opinions about critical issues that will affect all of our lives, but I’d sure be fascinated to learn which classic films resonate for Sam Alito. Wouldn’t you like to read a list of his 5 favorite films? Can we pass legislation to get all nominees’ Netflix queues placed into the public record? I can’t think of a better cultural Rorschach test. And it may be just as valid an indicator of what we’re in for as some of the other hysterical ravings about Alito that are coming from both sides.

Here’s a challenge: Based on your understanding (fear/panic/admiration/support) of Bush’s new nominee, Judge Samuel Alito Jr., what would you guess his five favorite films to be?

I’m trying to reserve judgment about Alito as much as I can although it’s frankly impossible for me to look at anything Bush does in this arena without huge amounts of cynicism. I tend to shy away from conspiracy theories, but now I’m almost wondering whether Harriet Miers was a deliberate misstep. Now Bush can say, “look, I did choose a woman that I thought would have been a peachy addition to the Supreme Court, but it didn’t work out.” And then, presto chango, he’s once again the darling of the Religious Right, who now feel that Daddy listened to their needs and responded accordingly. It’s so much more effective this way than if he had chosen Alito to begin with. Regardless of Alito’s qualifications, I’m creeped out by the groups coming out to vehemently support him. When I first looked him up on the day the nomination was announced, the first site that came up was the “American Family Association,” headed by Donald Wildmon and purporting to be “American’s Largest Pro-Family Action Site” (I can’t even bring myself to include a link here). They went ga-ga over Alito and they loved the fact that as an appellate judge he was in favor of a Pennsylvania law that would have required married women to notify their husbands of their intent to get an abortion. (I notice they didn’t mention the student conference Alito led when he was at Princeton that urged legalization of sodomy and curbs on domestic intelligence.)

What really caught my eye on the AFA site was the headline article accusing the popular doll company “American Girl” of “luring youth into radical feminist ideology” by promoting abortion and lesbianism. “We are asking people who care about little girls and about the value of human life to refrain from purchasing products and visiting American Girl Place during the entire Christmas shopping season.” Who knew? I never really cared for the company but now I have a newfound respect for Molly, my daughter’s World War II-era American Girl doll. I think we’ll throw a Coming Out party for Molly tonight. Maybe I’ll finally buy Leah that Samantha doll she’s always wanted so that Molly can have a life partner.

Now that Harriet Miers’ ill-fated nomination has curled up and died, we all know that there are NO other women in this country who would have been suitable candidates for the Supreme Court, right? We looked at every woman and person of color and we just couldn’t find anyone who cut the mustard, so we had to go with another white guy. Hey, you wouldn’t want us to pick someone JUST BECAUSE of their sex or ethnic background, would you? Oh no, that would be just the kind of unfair discrimination that we are all fighting against. And look what happened with Geraldine Ferraro. See! We tried putting a woman on the national ticket and what a disaster that was. Better not take that risk again, let’s stick with the white guys. AAAARGH. As a card-carrying white guy, I’d be perfectly content if white males were excluded from all Supreme Court nominations for the next 100 years.