Jordan Hoffman Dot Com

Oy, such a racket! It’s the late 60s, society is about to explode, but there are still enough hausfraus in curlers with the large glass ashtrays and Mantovani records playing. Ignoring all content this movie makes high marks simply as a window into costume and home decorating among the Catholic working class of the era. Then we meet the men: The Rabbit, the Bull, the Gipper and the Badger. Four bible salesmen schlepping through the snow, watching the fights on the motel tube, puffing their chests out at the national conference. “You are doing your Father’s work” they are told and then they beat their way to someone’s kitchen table and, basically, tell them that if they don’t buy this expensive leather bound bible with color photos they are leading their children to rack and ruin. It is so awful, it is so embarrassing. . .both for the pitcher and the pitched. It is the type of movie that makes you want to crawl under your seat and die.

Matt Zoller Seitz introduced the film and then lead a Q & A with Albert Maysles, who Ann said reminded her of her Uncle Steve (I second this.) It was during the Q & A when I realized something. A few years back, I had a stint in sales. I got paid well but I hated it — absolutely hated everything about it (this movie is no lie.) It actually affected my personality out of the workplace — I became a more manipulative person, something of an asshole (the shop was run by a Napoleonic tyrant who, one day, I will base a film character on and everyone will think I am making it up.) Anyway, the point is that when I was there, making phone sales, I actually tried to shill to Albert Maysles at his (then) home at the Dakota. It took me a minute to realize who I was talking to (I made 900 calls a day and often didn’t know who I was talking to) and when I realized it was Maysles I said something on the order of — “Hey, you’re Albert Maysles?” He replied yes. I then apologized for bothering him and told him I enjoyed his films. I told him I studied under George Stoney at NYU and he said, “Oh, good old George – we go way back!” I debated going into my pitch, but decided to save a little bit of my soul and told him to have a nice day. I’d seen many of Maysles’ films at that point, but not “Salesman.” That would’ve made the whole thing more depressing.

Since I’m on the subject, other celebrities and quasi-celebrities that I spoke to at that horrible, horrible job include:

Frank Deford — sports columnist and NPR guy. I chatted with him for quite some time, and I hardly care about sports. He was a really friendly person.

Sarah Vowell — writer and (see a trend?) NPR gal. She was very giggly and funny and, for some reason, encouraged me to pitch her despite letting me know in advance she wasn’t buying anything. I think she just wanted to chat. She made me like her more than I already did.

Geraldo Rivera’s wife — not quite a celebrity, but very sweet & fun.

Jeff Rossen — he’s a haricut newsreader from Channel 7, but he, too, was very nice & fun (I didn’t know who he was until he told me, but he had “that voice.”)

Budd Schulberg — writer of movies like “On The Waterfront” and “A Face In The Crowd.” He was kinda mean, actually, but he is quite advanced in age and doesn’t have to be nice to idiots like me on the phone.

The Chick Who Played Dizzy Flores in “Starship Troopers” — I forget her name now, but I recognized it when I saw it back then. She was nice.

Paul Newman — Never had the guts to call him when his name came up.

Spike Lee — See above.

Stephen Sondheim — See above.

Michael Eisner — Not so much lack of guts and lack of initiative — you think he answers his own phone?

When Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel came out many hailed him as the greatest thing since bread had met slicing. Then there was a raging backlash. Then the movie came out and kinda fizzled and his sophomore book didn’t do all that much either. So, maybe now that things have kinda settled back to zero it is a good opportunity to see what all the hubbub is about. It comes down to this:

Yes, definitely if you are annoyed by gimmicky writing, avoid this book like the plague. If you can stomach magical realism, shifting timelines, stories within stories within letters from unreliable sources withing stream-of-consciousness poorly translated and etcetera — if you can stomach this, if you are willing to put up with the occasional eye-roll of “just spit it out!” then, yes, there’s a lot to be found here. For one, it is very funny. Laugh out loud on the subway funny. Although, post-Borat, maybe not as funny as it once was. (Which came first, this book or Borat? It is kinda the same joke at times.) There is tenderness and heart and the occasional Nazi crime, but that, alas, seems kinda false to me. The thesis of the book, the importance of memory, is all well and good — but no one would give two shits about this book or J. S. F. if it weren’t for the jokes. There are good jokes here and I recommend this book as comedy and not much more.

Riccardo Muti conducted Vadim Repin, his named 1708 Stradivarius and the New York Philharmonic through Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto on Thursday. I’m no scholar, but I can say that this piece is the most awesomest of awesome awesomenesses (there, I’ve said it.) And V. Repin tore it up in a way far more dazzling than the no-name $3.99 CD of the recording I bought some time in college. Seriously, during the slow movement, I was sweating. There were quiet moments when you could hear the hairs on the back of the neck of the old woman in front of you stand up. And when the whole orchestra blammed in for the big finish, it was a knock-out punch. It comes down to this: The Violin Concerto, once thought impossible to play (Tchaikovsky’s originally selected performer refused it) is the classical world’s version of Hendrix jamming with his teeth or Eddie Van Halen playing behind his head. It was intended to make your jaw drop and it does a pretty good job of that.

I’d never heard the music of Scriabin before, but I knew to expect a lot of bombast (”a long-winded mass of mystical mush” is how the NY Times describes this piece.) It wasn’t atonal or anything, just, like, a lot. I enjoyed it — it was really frickin’ loud, for one thing — but I can’t deny that at 50 minutes it tried my patience a little. But the energy and intensity and muscular sound of the brass kept me involved. Can’t say the same for the older couple to my left who both fell asleep (first she, then he, kinda cute the way they leaned on each other) or the youngish couple in front of one another who typed notes to each other on their blackberry. At least nobody walked out.

1/2

I’m all for suspension of disbelief, but this episode just asks too much of us. If a planet it so overpopulated that citizens bounce around off of each other like pinballs, how do they have the space to create a full-sized replica of the Enterprise? And is baffling Kirk in order to have him not notice blood has been taken from him really the best way to euthanize the populace? Can’t these people just keep it in their pants for a few years?!? Completely idiotic! (Although minor props for having the “happy” ending conclude with an eerie ode to volunteer suicide.) Creepy ending aside, this episode is a disaster.

This is the one where Frank Gorshin, dressed like a Black & White cookie, is chasing a dude who also looks like a Black & White cookie. But wait — he looks like a White & Black cookie. Aha!! That’s deep!! Oh, why all this a-fussin’ and a-feudin’?? Can’t we all just get along?

This episode rocks! Leonard Nimoy may disagree (Mr. Spock does act a little illogically toward the end, all in the name of a cool action sequence) but forget that for a moment. This episode features the criminally insane “Lord” Garth, a squeaking, raging, prancing loon with two different color boots, a short temper and a habit of screaming in falsetto. He may be the greatest Trek villain ever (oh, why does he get reformed at the end of this episode — if only he could’ve returned for “The Wrath of Garth”!!!!) Also, young Yvonne Craig, pre-BatGirl, twitching around as a deranged, pulchritudinous Orion Slave Girl is nothing to blow your nose at either.

I wish I could tell you that in 2007 you will find every moment of Man With A Movie Camera exhilarating. You won’t. Even at 86 minutes, a little goes a long way. But there are sequences in this “kino-pravda” that are fascinating, playfull and just fun-to-watch. Almost a primer on “here’s what we can do with this thing called cinema,” the more effort you put into it, the more you’ll get out of it. Unlike, say, Koyaanisqatsti I can’t really glean a (for lack of better term) point to this excersize other than just as an excersize. I’m probably missing something. Last night’s live performance (presented by J. Hoberman) featured a fabulous semi-improvised score by two wizards of keyboards, synthesizers and apple computers whose names I never got. Hats off to them!

What do you do when friends receive membership in the “Meat of the Month Club” as a gift?

You wait for the invitation.

Her mild eyes command the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

Did you know that there’s no Marshall Tucker in the Marshall Tucker Band? (Just like there’s no Lynyrd Skynyrd.) What’s with these southern bands? The MTB doesn’t rock nearly as hard as Skynyrd and certainly doesn’t have the chops of the Allman Brothers Band but sometimes, like when you are doing dishes, just a nice hummable tune is all you are looking for. This CD — after living deep in the Hoffman archives with hardly a passing thought for 15 years or so — has made it into the countertop player and earned itself many repeat turns.

I tried listening Smashing Pumpkins’ lengthy double album for the first time since it came out. Impossible. But, in doses, it is terrific.

The other night, cocked on red wine, Appetite for Destruction came on. Oh, good lord, it is terrific. So much cowbell. Between “It’s So Easy,” “My Michelle,” “Mr. Brownstone” — and then all the MTV hits — forget about it! I admit it is a little exhausting by the end (all that suburban theraputic alienation starts to wear on you when you are out of high school) but it is remarkable just how unsurpassed this cock rock masterpiece is.

The Orb — seems to always come up in random late at night as I am at the computer. You’ll get no complaints from me.

Since I’m currently missing the Altman retrospective at IFC Center, I figured I’d dig this up — the second of the “Kansas City” albums. It is good. But, frankly, not as good as I remember. You might be better served just finding source material or listening to current albums by the talents on display here. Somehow, this CD seems kinda silly in retrospect. (But I’ve been on something of an anti-Jazz kick these last few months, in direct contrast to most of my adult life. Who can say why?)

The real discovery of late is the “Greatest Hits” of Ian Hunter as presented by Mr. William S. Repsher. This is a nice bordertown between pot hazy 70s guitar rock and snappy pop. Some of the later tunes have a near Brill Building quality to it. . . but a little wasted. . .and English. Still processing this.

Liv Ullman is superhuman. I’ve written before about just how great she can be and in this movie she does something I’ve never seen her do before: act cute. “An-Magritt” is kinda like a “Little House on the Prairie” meets “Norma Rae” — there are a lot of freezing Norwegian rock collectors riding their oxen in the snow. Holy cow is it cold! Anyway, a new wheelwright comes to town bringing progress and problems, then some bad news, then bad weather, then it is up to An-Magritt, the little bastard child with spunk, to save the day. Go An-Magritt! Ride that Ox to Freedom!!!!!

When the lights came up there was an audible snicker, the friends I was with all kinda shrugged and the old woman in the hat said, “the story was shit!” but I’m gonna stand my ground. Many of Bergman’s films leave themselves open to cries of The Emperor’s New Clothes, but none so much as this one. Heck, Woody Allen and Diane Keaton’s characters nearly came to blows over it in the movie Manhattan.

Ambiguous and frustrating, yes, but (and this is key) never boring. At 93 minutes and gorgeously shot in shimmering black and white (take that, Inland Empire) this nearly dialogue-free quasi-narrative wavers from surrealism to precise mundanity. The story that is there is, indeed, worth puzzling over and the proof is in the spellbinding quality of the formalism surrounding it. The sound design, the camera moves, the glimpses from multiple perspectives. Are they sisters or lovers? Is the world at war? Is she really dying? Why so naked around the kid? Those sunglasses are awesome, where can I get a pair? Is that a Hershey bar?

There are no shortage of hallways, mirrors, broken (and repaired) illumination sources and language barriers to keep those who want to argue psychological symbolic imagery busy all night long (hopefully in a turtleneck sweater at the coed dorm with Schoenberg or maybe Brubeck playing, Franz Kline print next to the window as snow slowly falls. . . . )

In this episode (kinda based on the story of Helen of Troy, get it?) Kirk must negotiatie troublesome diplomatic waters between the Angry Planet (they eat with their hands!) and the Fey Planet (Ambassador Paul Lynde reporting, sir!) Best are some of the evil Queen’s henchmen and their costumes made from place mats! (and the royal jewels made from dilithium crystals.)

If Russell Shorto’s theories are correct we should all send postcards to the Netherlands thanking their ancestors for their ill-fated attempts at empire building in the New World during the 1600s. All sorts of recently uncovered and translated documents point to Shorto’s conclusion that everything cool about New York and America in general has its roots in the fifty-or-so years the Dutch held the New Netherlands and New Amsterdam before the British took over. If those first colonists weren’t primed in the “Dutch tradition,” and the later British colonies would have consisted merely of New Englanders and Virginians, God knows how world history would have turned out. America, Shorto posits, would not have been the legendary “melting pot” it became in later centuries, and probably would have mutated into a hotbed of insane religiousity (the Puritans sure gave the Taliban a run for their money.)

This book is also a fabulous read. There are some fascinating characters presented from history: Henry Hudson, Peter Minuit (the purchase of 60 guilders, the later conquest of Delaware on behalf of New Sweeden!), Willem Kieft, Peter Stuyvesant (dude had a wooden leg and owned parrots!), various Mohawk, Mahican, Canarsee and other Indian tribes, and the soul of New Amsterdam, a man with the terrific name Adriaen van der Donck. There are new revelations on almost every page — “oh, so that’s why that is!” was my most recurring comment. The Dutch weren’t perfect — they may be solely responsible for kicking slavery into high gear (although some Africans lived in New Netherlands — indeed, some owned slaves!) and they had a tendency to go to war with the Native Americans (but at least some of them protested!) but this book shows, perhaps somewhat inadvertantly, how unique a culture the Dutch created compared to the rest of Europe in the 1600s. New Amsterdam sounds like a cool place to live.

Ann took this picture.

And this one, too.

Goober is in a corner.

You aren’t allowed to take photos in the old Apple Bank on the Upper West Side. We found that out after snapping this.

Look, there are two distinct ways to watch this movie. If you don’t suspend your disbelief you’ll be mightily pissed at all of the things that don’t make sense. I mean — where to start? A multi-gazillion dollar facility with backup system beyond backup system, yet one of the dudes on the team (for our sake) doesn’t know squat?

But — fuck all that — look at those stills!

Now, maybe I’m telling a little bit about myself, and maybe you won’t be too surprised, but I am willing to forgive a movie that makes absolutely no sense — even one with a horrible cop-out ending like “The Andromeda Strain” — if it delivers on the goods. And this movie delivers on the goods like few others. Look at those stills!

And the fonts! This movie has some of the greatest typography, color-coded hallways, recorded computer-voiced announcements, waveform monitor displays, use of robotic arms, electron microscopes, partical accelerators, telexes up the ying-yang (a whole plotpoint centers on telex machines!), gamma processors, jet propulsive godknowswhats and and and and — let me put it to you this way. Did you know that in “The Andromeda Strain” there is, like, a thirty minute sequence that is lump-in-your-throat awesome that consists, effectively, of four scientists taking an elevator down five flights??!???!!! I’m not shitting you. After a breathtaking sequence of watching four scientists get to the secure Area 51-esque outpost. . .they then take the most intense 16-hour (diagetic time) descent into a clean room. Just when you think the sequence couldn’t go on any longer, there’s another radiation bath (and another color-coded jumpsuit.) God-fucking-damn I get chills just thinking about how awesome it is.

And did I mention the opening title sequence? Sigh, gurgle, drool. . . . I have to buy this on DVD immediately!