Jordan Hoffman Dot Com

Sixteen years ago I played Carol Newquist in a high school production of Jules Feiffer’s play “Little Murders.” Frankly, it was above our station. I think that’s why I never saw this movie, ’cause I was always a little embarrassed of that production. Kinda silly — we were in high school! This film version is good, very good, but there’s something kinda off. The satirical elements are uneven. You have monstrously funny soliloquies from Lou Jacobi, Donald Sutherland, Vincent Gardenia (boy, he’s a lot better than I was at age 16!) and Arkin himself. And then you have some very arty photography from Gordon Willis and light avant-garde touches in pacing and editing. When the commentary track told me that producer Elliot Gould (he’s also great as the lead) originally was in talks with Jean-Luc Godard to direct it kinda made more sense. My guess is that the film was a tug of war in two directions: Producer Gould hoping to ape Godard and Arkin doing shtick. Maybe you’ll like the results. Gould and Feiffer on the commentary track seem pretty pleased. I find it interesting, but I can’t say I subscribe to this particular publication.

Hats way way way way off to Bill Frisell and the Unspeakable Orchestra who played last Saturday to an audience that was split in two distinct camps: Those of us mouth agape and awed by the intensity, playfulness and audacity of the sounds coming from this medium-sized ensemble of guitar, bass, drums, horns, woodwind (singular) and strings. . .and the dozens of (alas, mostly) senior citizens shaking their head thinking, “Vat is this nonsense? And the only one who has the courtesy to wear a tie is a woman? Oy!” I’m guessing they get a lot of subscribers and when they read “jazz guitar” they think Les Paul. Well, whatever, everyone is entitled to their opinion. At least they didn’t boo. (The 92nd St. Y staff, though, is a little insane. After the show, as the group was preparing to take their bow, I whipped out my camera to take a few snaps for ye olde blog. Out of nowhere a light from Checkpoint Charlie is flashing in my face and a voice is telling me to stop. So I was only able to get off one shot — and the shot indeed sucks):

When I came home Ann asked if the show was good and what kind of music it was. I told her it was awesome and that. . .I didn’t know. . .the evening’s entertainment was truly part of that genre that can’t really be put into a box. Jazz? Prog Rock? Jam Band? “New Music?” Who the hell knows and, of course, who the hell cares?

Hey, look — the truth of the matter is that I really dig men with blocky glasses reading quotes from Lenin out loud as women in mod primary colored blouses stir cups of coffee. Throw in images of flat concrete high rise housing units and advertising signage and I’m basically putty in your hand. What can I say? It just speaks to me. Note: remember a year ago when I went on that kooky bender collecting defunct airline bags? I have the EXACT same Pan Am tote as seen below!!

It’s a little shocking that I’ve never seen this before, seeing as how I am a huge Alan Arkin fan, a medium sized Neil Simon fan and someone who is generally fascinated with the late 60s/early 70s sexual revolution and New York Jewish post-shtetl mentality and the forcefull vertex those two topics create. It’s been explored to death in countless books (half of them by Philip Roth) but not nearly as many movies. This may be one of the best I’ve ever seen. Arkin is Barney Cashman, owner of a midtown fish restaurant, resident of Great Neck, very balding, very chaste and he begins each day by looking in the mirror and saying, “oy, you again!” There’s some frills on the edges, but this is basically three uninterrupted Simon scenes — Arkin takes a woman back to his mother’s apartment (she volunteers at Mount Sinai in the afternoons) in the hopes of committing adultery. Wackiness ensues. First with Sally Kellerman (Arkin thinks a monologue on death is the way into this woman’s pants), then Paula Prentiss (Arkin smoking reefer ties with Buck Henry’s in Milos Forman’s similar Taking Off as the funniest joint in movies) and, saving the best for last, fellow Great Neck-er Renee Taylor. It says something when you are watching a movie by yourself at midnight and you are laughing so hard you have to rewind it ’cause you’re missing lines. Zingers back and forth at breakneck speed — and a lot of great running gags. (My favorite involves Arkin constantly putting ointment on his fish-smelling-fingers.) Anyway, this movie may not be for everyone. But as far as I am concerned, it is a work of unparalleled genius.

Listen: I admit it. I’ve been a very bad blogger of late. I just have not been taking photos at key events and, therefore, have very little evidence to prove they actually existed. There was a birthday shindig just two nights ago and many JH.c readers were there. You know that you were there. I just didn’t take any photos of you. The camera came out for a five minute window and if you happened to be in the immediate area at that time you were documented.

We met at The Dove, one of my favorite downtown bars that has a great number of specialty drinks. One of their more pedestrian & goofy offerings is the one I always wind up choosing — the dopey and (borderline offensive) Irish Car Bomb. Thank heaven above Ann was on hand to get a record of the quaffing of this interactive, group libation.

Ben and Gina say hello. They win top honors as best giftgivers – a Mr. T. keychain that belts out of six fool-pitying quotes!!

JJQ, John D., Rob & Kim prepare for merriment.

JJQ & John D. were in deep convo for over an hour. I later asked what they were jawing about and the response I got was: “Everything! Technology. . .Mark Cuban . . .everything!”

Ed was on hand to welcome you! He shakes the hand of an offscreen Chris W.

Here I am looking completely idiotic next to Henrietta. I didn’t even have any Irish Car Bombs yet!

Josh (who I haven’t seen in years!) and Andy get into a throwdown arguement!

Andy looks vexed, so maybe Josh bested him in debate?

Kerry and Leslie are, I believe, canoodling.

I’m of two complete minds on Rollerball. I love Rollerball because it is sci-fi with big themes. And the some of the greatest sets, furniture, props and font (!) of all time. And John Houseman saying “Jonathan Eeeeeeeeee!” It is big and operatic and gutsy and it cribs from “Rules of the Game.” It is also ridiculous, impossible to glean any real meaning from and, yes, boring. The Rollerball game (which I can never make any sense of) just never ends! It’s completely impossible to watch without your eyes glazing over. It’s also impossible to like James Caan’s character (the aforementioned Jonathan Eeeeeeeee) because he is a ruthless, shameless killer. One could argue that the movie is brilliant because Caan knows he’s supposed to be good, but lives in a society where killing isn’t considered wrong and has no moral issues with this. The only thing that bugs him – that is built deep within him – is that he doesn’t like being told what to do, dammit! I dunno, in many real ways Rollerball rules. And yet it is also terrible. Go figure. Here’s Kerry’s review.

Kinda idiotic. Even though I usually like episodes that a) involve the mundane facts about life in the federation (in this case, a shore leave planet) and b) have lots of Scotty — this is, well, as I say, kinda idiotic. It’s the one where the ghost of Jack the Ripper is floating around. Yeah, you may have seen it and tried to forget about it. And then McCoy has to dope everyone up with happy pills ’cause Jack lives off of fear. Yeah. kinda idiotic.

“Obsession” has the benefit of being one of the first Trek episodes I ever saw, so I therefore think very highly of it. Sure, there are some real doozy plot holes (like how does Kirk suddenly have empathic abilities to know whether gaseous clouds are intelligent or not?!?) and it is very convenient that said gaseous cloud kills everything it touches — except when it touches important characters (then it only stuns them.) Still, we see Kirk go a little bananas as he chases his white whale — I mean, cloud. Plus he has a feel good message about not blaming yourself too much for prior screw ups. What a guy!

Last week Ann and I met up with my parents and ventured to the wilds of Columbus, Ohio to witness the Bar Mitzvah of Young Kevin Feinberg. Like a putz, I took no pictures of Kevin or his very entertaining father, Eric (my second cousin), mother Marcy or younger brother Gregory. I did get a few other photos, though.

This fish adorns the senior Feinberg home, along with photos of my midwestern cousins.

Here is Ann with Hank. Growing up, I think I used to call Hank “Uncle Hank”. . .he’s a very “Uncle Hank” kinda guy, even if he is technically the spouse of my first cousin once removed. (Got that?)

Here Ann sits next to Sibby and her first cousin Gloria (far left.)

I took no photos of the temple or religious ceremony. But I did whip the camera out at “Supergames!” the swingenist spot in Columbus. Here Ann takes the rock to the hoop — nerf style.

Here I am being attacked by Marc Bolan’s band.

Same goes for Ann.

I’m thinking about going in the Spider Hop.

In the Spider Hop. Notice how all small children have fled in fear.

This adoreable little moppet is actually related to me. This is Rachael, my second cousin once removed (got that?)

These two are related even more distantly. In fact, I don’t even think there’s a word for how we’re related. They’re from L.A. and very nice. They were very excited to rake leaves (I guess you don’t get to do that much in L.A.)

Cousin Jeff tug-o-wars with his young son.

And then rides the wacky bike.

Hank and Rachael on the wacky bike.

And Hank and cousin David on the wacky bike. Finally the kids leave the toys to the adults!

I am in the center, tied around the waist, playing a game of Human Foosball (!)

In the midst of all these shenanigoats, George Hoffman takes a meeting.

Goober is sporting much bling.

A pretty straightforward doc about The Living Theater and its recent renaissance. What spectacular footage! Some of it provided by Jonas Mekas (I think). We see clips of performances of “Paradise Now,” which looks like a whole lot of naked writhing as rocks whiz past actors’ head during the May ‘68 uprising. While a lot of Brechtian theory is tossed about (and recent street performances galore) I would have liked a little insight into just how this is all funded. Especially since so much of the work is about the evils and horrors of money. They don’t appear to be living rich, but they are eating. (And no mention of Brian De Palma’s brilliant parody “Be Black Baby.”) The film doesn’t dwell on the late Julian Beck — but all footage of him is welcome. With him and Brother Theodore and Ginsburg gone, New York needs another frightening, raging Jew. News: for the first time in decades The Living Theater has its own dedicated space opening in New York. Next year they’ll revive “The Brig,” the piece that sent them off to Europe and Brazil in the first place. It’ll be down on Clinton St. If I psyche myself up now, I may be able to tolerate an entire performance!

When Fatih Akin was in Istanbul making Head-On with musician Alexander Hacke (of Einstürzende Neubauten) the city obviously made an impression. They returned, armed with laptop and microphones, to record the music of the city. We see underground rock and rap that, while culturally interesting, are no better than the underground rock and rap anywhere else (which is to say, if you aren’t drinking, not very good.) We then meet some young people who are blending traditional Turkish music with pop stylings. Nice guys, but, ugh, the music sounds like Rusted Root. But then we meet the real deal. People playing traditional Turkish music, traditional Romany music, traditional Kurdish music (which until recently was banned) and the movie just fucking explodes. This stuff is absolutely incredible. The movie is therefore saved by its subject which for the first third or so is merely travelogue. Istanbul looks like a great city.

A little too serious for its own good, perhaps. And the air gets let out at the end; perhaps 5 minutes could have been cut. But a really well observed and very well acted piece. Based on Andre Dubus’ stories (but, basically, it is John Updike without the humor.) They sure do have a lot of sex standing up in this movie.

I don’t care how sullen and beautiful Nastassja Kinski looks in her milk-maid bonnet, this movie is average. And fucking long.

Here’s my theory: Elaine May took Neil Simon’s script (based on a Bruce Jay Friedman story) read it once with the cast and then left it somewhere in an office when she went to make this movie. The performances are so fucking absolutely perfect they had to be improvised. This film is Charles Grodin’s masterpiece. Everything he says is hysterical. Now: this movie was made in 1972, so I think it is fair to say that Bill Murray and Steve Martin both were very influenced by it. (Jim Carrey and Richard Kind, too.) Eddie Albert, Cybil Shepherd and Jennine Berlin (May’s daughter) are specatcular, too. Critics would say the movie is dated (although the outfits are fabulous!) but if you can just get your head into the times a little bit and recognize the taboos you’ll really be blown away by this film. Elaine May’s career is so strange. Obviously a tremendous output of brilliant work as a comic with Mike Nichols in the sixties — then four films as a director. This and “A New Leaf” are near-perfect comedies. “Mikey and Nicky” is a tremendous character piece. “Ishtar,” yeah, a flop, sure. . .and then nothing. Two decent scripts for Mike Nichols and a supporting role for Woody Allen. What does this woman do all day? She can’t put together a few grand for a picture shot on video or something? Seems a shame such talent is going to waste.

Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Scotty and a Female Redshirt catch a space disease that causes rapid aging. Chekov doesn’t (because he was scared at the time of infection — hence the cure, much like for the hiccups, is shouting “boo” at the afflicted.) As the obscenely bad makeup gets worse and worse we see our heroes getting older. Kirk is forgetful, McCoy is grouchy, Scotty is just tired. A visiting Commodore puts Kirk on trial to relieve him of his command (third time by my count.) But even with his youth and intellect, he can’t controll a Starship with his “desk mentality!!!” Luckily the cure comes just in time for Kirk to save the ship from Romulans (but not the Redshirt from disease — even though she was clearly the youngest-looking of the infected.) A fun episode — though, I must admit, a little dark and heavy at times.

Ann and I have made it back from our weekend in Columbus, Ohio. I am, perhaps in only a small way, a changed man. We did take a handfull of pictures and I intend to blog about this in the not-too-distant future.

There’s not that much to recommend about this episode except for the fact that one of the bad guys is a spitting image of Will Ferrell. There he is up there on the right. As he reads his space talk (and these aliens REALLY talk like aliens. . .calling McCoy “Mac-Coy” and the like) it is impossible not to bust out laughing. Scotty is left in control of the Enterprise during the bulk of the action — I like when they leave Scotty in control. He’s a real capabale guy.