The Forgotten Legend

In sports, statistics are used to quantify data that is, intrinsically, qualitative. That is, they attempt to explain something that has to be experienced. By definition, they are deceptive because looking at a box score rarely, if ever, tells the full story of a game. I’m relatively sure Bill Russell should be the all time block leader in the NBA, but, unfortunately for Russell, they didn’t record that particular stat at that time. Chamberlin demolished every statistic known to man when he played, and, presumably, would own almost every record if he played today. The all time points leader in the NBA, though, is Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. This is a testament to Kareem’s dominance and the overwhelming power of his sky hook, and helped solidify his place as one of the all time greats. It’s part of the reason he’s so well known and respected. There’s no mistake: everyone knows Kareem, and everyone knows it’s his record.

Now, think of the all time assists leader. It’s not Magic Johnson. It’s not Oscar Robertson, either. It’s not even Isaiah Thomas. The all time assists leader is John Stockton, of the Utah Jazz. If you don’t remember Stockton too well, you’re not alone, even though you should. He was part of the famed 1984 draft that brought multiple future Hall of Famers into the Association. He was part of the Olympic Dream Teams of the 90s. He’s also the all time steals leader. Stockton played 19 seasons in the NBA, all for the Jazz, leaving in 2003, when the Jazz had drafted somebody named Deron Williams. After his rookie year, he never averaged less than seven assists per game. He, along with Karl Malone, made back to back trips to the NBA finals, only to lose to Jordan’s Bulls both times. That would be more devastating to his resume, I think, if it wasn’t Michael Jordan on the other team. Stockton played in the league for nineteen years, and even in his last year in the league, when he was forty one, he started every game. In that last year, he averaged 7.7 assists per game, and took his career total to 15806, which is more than 4500 away from Jason Kidd in second place. That record, I would imagine, is going to be nearly impossible to break for anyone. What’s astonishing to me, though, is that we hardly ever talk about Stockton.

Stockton is easily one of the top five point guards of all time, but very few people will call him the top pg ever, despite the stats. I think this speaks to the relative anonymity Stockton has now outside of Salt Lake City. Stockton never had a flashy or even well rounded game (he only recorded one career triple double) but he was effective, never more so than when he worked with Karl Malone. Masters of the pick and roll, Stockton and Malone were perfect pieces for Jerry Sloan’s system. The Jazz, though, amounted to white noise during the mid to late nineties, aside from their two trips to the Finals, and even then it was Malone who was played off as the opposite to Jordan rather than Stockton. No one talks about him because there are so many more entertaining and exciting figures to discuss, I suppose. From his draft class alone, Stockton takes a backseat to His Airness, holy man Olajuwon, and the Round Mound of Rebound. He was never a highlight reel player, and never garnered much attention because he was in Utah. The big cities had their own stars (Magic, Ewing, Shaq, etc.) to pay attention to, so why would they focus on that guy out in Mormon Country?

Even Stockton’s “dirty” plays are kind of boring. Illegal screens? Really? Stockton played both ends of the court well, as evidenced by his steals numbers (1,000 more than Michael Jordan has at number two,) and was as quick as he was efficient. Let Malone have the points, Stockton was happy getting him the ball. Never before has anyone seemingly been solely focused on getting assists, even if they were trying to get a triple double. Stockton wanted to pass more than shoot which defies every human impulse. Even though he could score, he didn’t seem to care enough to put any effort into it. Stockton led the league in assists for nine years while Magic and Isaiah were still in their primes, and during that stretch he never dropped below 11 assists per game. Again, it’s odd that someone who was so dominating in one aspect of the game remains all but forgotten in our collective consciousness. We remember everyone else with a certain reverence and in a certain role. Magic was the guy everybody liked and the triple double machine. Bird was the perfect shooter. Jordan was God. Hakeem, the big man who defied the laws of physics; Barkley, the odd duck with talent and a temper; Isaiah, the bad boy; Ewing the rock; and so on and so on and so on except Stockton. Even people like Reggie Miller got some kind of classification. Stockton, though, in conversation might merit an “Oh yeah!” and not much else. We focused, I guess, on the scoring Malone provided. When you watch old clips, Stockton almost always dishes, but he’s also sure to steal as well, so not only did he generate scores, he generated more possessions. In a weird way, it’s a strategy that is a companion to Russell’s strategy of block and pass. Stockton would steal and throw, letting the defense generate more offense with his trusty scorers out there. For defenders, the dynamic duo of Malone and Stockton had to be almost impossible to defend against. Between Stockton’s no look passes and Malone’s versatility, their fast break was all but unstoppable. Stockton, really, was the consummate point guard and teammate, and what’s more: that’s what he wanted. He may very well be the purest point guard in basketball history, taking his position to heart and defining himself as a passer, a distributer, a floor general. Today, players like Chris Paul and that Williams guy are refining their own games, albeit with more flash than Stockton ever had, and while there are terrific point guards like Derrick Rose out there who are almost complete opposites of Stockton’s style, there are also players like Rajon Rondo who excel with similar methods. Honestly, I think we forget Stockton because he never wanted to be remembered. He was more than content in his role, and that’s probably why he was successful. I think this is just who he is. In interviews, he will always give credit to Sloane and Malone, even though he was integral to their success, probably more than they were to his. When he made his Hall of Fame induction speech, he was clearly uncomfortable being the center of attention. "I was always the second best player on my team." he said. He accepted his place on the court, and decided that it was better to enhance the people around him than it was to focus on his own stat sheets. In a time when basketball players were becoming bigger than ever, Stockton was a piece of the classic style. He was always out place, and really never got the proper amount of attention because of where he was. He's probably never going to surpass Magic, and that's probably how it should be. Stockton embraced the point guard in the classic sense, and defined himself as an assistant, living in the box while other guards changed it. Regardless of all of this, though, he represented a purity of the game, and, if nothing else, that should be respected.

Red Robin: Why Fabian Nicieza and Marcus To Deserve Your Money

 

The best comics blend art and writing so that each enhances the other without being overtaken by the other. When the script is good, the characters become more than just placeholders for dialogue, and when the artwork is good, they begin to take on a life of their own within the story. Everything works together, so that it all becomes something more than its parts. It’s the same with songs and films. The lyrics and the music are supposed to complement one another to create a full picture of what’s being conveyed. Likewise in movies, when the director can elicit the proper performance out of an actor, everything begins to fall in place. For comics, this level of craftsmanship used to be a lot more common than it is now. We used to have teams like Stan and Jack working together for long periods of time on multiple books, creating new worlds, and setting the bar. Today, it’s rare to find a creative team that stays on the same book for over six months, let alone a year.* It’s even harder to find one that takes a story and brings it to another level.** Robert Kirkman’s done this twice, actually, with “Walking Dead” and “Invincible,” and while I’m personally a bigger fan of “Invincible and the beyond excellent Ryan Ottley on art, both books are raised to an impeccable level by the art. “Ultimate Spider-Man” and “Daredevil” both achieved this feat with Brian Bendis, Spider-Man being shepherded by Mark Bagley and Daredevil being brought to life by Alex Maleev. “Fables” has also hit this mark with Bill Willingham and Mark Buckingham creating a fully formed world and completely reimagining the characters we all know. Since a comic is made by many people, though, it takes a lot of people to make this really happen. When it does, though, the results are spectacular and often bring the medium of graphic storytelling to new heights. Sorry to make that kind of dramatic statement, but really, there’s no other way to put it: that completely pulls a story together.

“Red Robin” is one of these books for me. The teamwork of Fabian Nicieza and Marcus To is impeccable. They manage to not only give Tim Drake a personality that is lacking in so many superheroes, but also manage to transform the character from a run of the mill, stereotypical sidekick/hero into something a little different. Under their care, we’ve seen Tim become more of his own man than he ever was before as Batman’s other half. He’s becoming independent, but he’s not fully leaving the nest. Besides that, though, Tim’s become less and less the common crime stopper, and is actually living up to his potential in every facet. Not unlike what his former assistant Dan Slott is doing with Spider-Man, Nicieza is using everything Tim has to make him into a better hero. Where before, dealing with kidnappings and stopping the occasional mugging was enough, and Tim could always find himself at Titans Tower, now he’s more focused than ever on stopping real crime and doing what it takes to make that happen. He has, like Batman himself recently, gone global, but he’s also playing chess in a world of checkers. Tim Drake is the same kid who figured out who Batman when he was about fourteen. He is smart, he is prepared, and most dangerously, he is impassioned. He has his mission, and he will do whatever it takes to accomplish it, but he isn’t as limited as Bruce is. Now, we’re seeing a rogues gallery and love interests develop that haven’t been involved before. Now, Tim’s got his own assistants that are only tied to the Batverse tangentially. Now, he’s taking people like Ra’s Al Ghul on personally, instead of dealing with one of his assassins. More international crime fighter than superhero, Tim Drake has established himself outside of the system and has become his own man. He has no time for the minutia of Gotham: the world is suffering. Let Dick Grayson handle the Joker, he has to stop a network of assassins from killing world financial leaders. And he does this without ever asking Bruce Wayne for help.

Nicieza is the perfect follow up to Chris Yost for this book. Yost got the ball rolling, and Nicieza has given Tim new purpose now that Bruce has returned. Nicieza is in a class of writers like John Ostrander, Geoff Johns, and James Robinson: they understand continuity, and use it to improve a story without becoming bogged down by it. Each story Tim has been involved in up until this point represents a portion of his life, and Nicieza makes sure that the memories remain. Every part of who he is, his training with Shiva, his connections with the Titans, even his relationship with Bruce’s son, Damian, all play a part in who he’s become because that’s the human existence: we’re the sum of our experiences. And that’s the brilliance in what writers like Nicieza can do: they make these characters seem human. They transform them from images on a two dimensional plane into characters that remain with us long after we put down the book, and make us want to stay with them next month. Tim isn’t trying to prove himself any more, he’s already done it. Nicieza lets Tim use his abilities at strategy and his charm together, building relationships with people that he uses to his advantage, all for a noble goal. He has given him his own world to play in that is unencumbered by any bat signals, and given us a look at Tim Drake as he slowly but surely becomes an even better hero.

As smart as Nicieza’s writing on the book has been, Marcus To’s pencil work has been equally impressive. To’s style is sleek but intricate, so that nothing is wasted and everything that appears is noteworthy. To is one of those artists, like Jamal Igle, who truly can tell a story with what they put on a page. Body language, facial expressions, all of it matters. Where other artists focus on double splash page pin ups, (which, for good measure, To can pull off excellently as well,) To focuses on giving the audience the best story possible. When Tim is acting as Tim Drake, he makes sure to stand and move like a normal teenager, but when he’s in costume, first we notice the extra weight on him, and we notice that he never lets his guard down. In a suit and tie, he insists on pushing his arms out wide, of making points to the media and others to get his point across. In armor, though, he’s guarded, prepared, but extremely mobile. Tim, for whatever reason, seems much more comfortable in costume than in his street clothes, like he’s acting to be Drake, and hiding himself in public, not unlike Bruce. To captures this feeling perfectly, using the eye slits in the Red Robin mask as the entrance to his soul. Other characters benefit from this attention to detail as well. When he draws Red Star, we see the Russian superhero not as a walking six pack of muscles, but as a normal man who happened to get powers. Red Star has always been an uneasy hero who does his work because his people need him, not out of any sense of glory, and To gives him a gravitas in his eyes and stance that fits the people’s defender. He has never been one to flash his abilities unnecessarily, but he will do what is necessary. Red Star wears pants and a shirt rather than armor or a mask, and To shows us what this says about him as a man: he is not comfortable in a position of authority, but he does his job, and does it well. We gain insight into who he is immediately, and know as much as we need to without any extra information. Coupled with Nicieza’s writing, we’re given a collection of unique and defined characters that, like To’s design aren’t too complicated, but aren’t shallow, either.

This is why I love comics: we get to see two creators at the top of their games come together and give us something really special. The story is less about a superhero, and more about a young man trying to find his way in the world, showing, in an unexpected way, a window into ourselves. Tim reacts as we do to the world around him, and sees fit to change it by using all his abilities, making himself better, but still standing on shaky ground sometimes, asking himself how far he’s willing to go to do the right thing. He has to find out what he will and won’t do in the name of justice. And that’s really the question that’s raised for all of us: is it the right thing to do if we have to sacrifice our morals to do it?

*This isn’t to say that this has to be done to make a comic good. In the case of books like “Jonah Hex” and others, the switch in art contributes a lot to the story, emphasizing a shift to help reset the different light the main character is seen. In the case of “Jonah” in particular, since the Hex character’s mythology is so important to the story, the changes become almost necessary because of the different viewpoints explored and wind up making the book that much better. The same could be said of Madame Xanadu's artistic shifts.

**Now, obviously, I’m not counting brilliant books and runs like anything Eisner did, Walt Simonson’s “Thor,” Jeff Smith’s “Bone,” Stan Sakai’s “Usagi Yojimbo,” or anything written and penciled by one person, because it is a little easier for the art and the story to match up in that case (although, not always. See Frank Miller’s “Dark Knight Strikes Again.”)

The Unbearable Weight of Big Men

*I’m writing about sports again, trying to sound smart. I worry that I just copy brilliance from the likes of Free Darko and Bomani Jones. But, regardless, here’s me rambling.

It’s hard not to feel bad for Yao Ming. The guy is a freak of nature, and is incredibly dominant…when he can play. And, judging by the news today, he may never be able to play again. This is incredibly sad to me because Yao was entering the prime part of his career and had the potential to be a Bill Russell type of player on defense, that changed the way the offense operated and allowed the Tracy McGradys and the Aaron Brooks of the world to prosper even further. But, some things are just not meant to be. When both Yao and McGrady were healthy, the Rockets looked like a team destined to win a Championship. McGrady would show up on Sports Center showcasing amazing talent, and Yao would walk away from every game with jaw dropping defensive numbers. But then, injuries set in. McGrady and Yao were never healthy at the same time. McGrady wound up getting traded to the Knicks and now plays with Rip Hamilton in Detroit, which  isn’t nearly as good as it sounds. And Yao apparently can’t walk up and down a hard wood floor without getting hurt. Now, we’re left with a guy who was entering his prime who will probably face serious consequences if he ever tries to play again. This is the same guy who brought the NBA to an entire culture, that has had more economic and global impact for the Association than almost anyone in the past few decades besides 23 (the first one,) 24, and that guy who played Kazam.

I guess it’s stuff like this that makes me realize how great the old great ones really are.  Yao’s body couldn’t handle the strain of the sport, and the way he was treated in games, being limited to 24 minutes a game, having all kinds of protective measures, it was like he was the NBA equivalent of a Tennessee Williams character. That kind of makes me appreciate the Russells, Chamberlins, and Olajuwons more, and how rare those guys are. And that those guys were never just big walls of height, either. All three of them were elegant power given form, and completely changed the way the game was played. I’m biased a bit here because I saw Olajuwon as I grew up, and as a result, he is my favorite player, so I want to make sure I don’t undersell the two giants from decades ago. In their book, Free Darko describes Russell and Chamberlin as the representatives of opposite sides of every argument: defense vs. offense, team vs. individual, left vs. right, righteousness vs. sin. Regardless of which one you prefer, both represented a cosmic shift in how basketball was played, especially at the time. Wilt broke every record known to man. Bill has more rings than MJ. They were forces of nature that were undeniable and have showed their impact through the ages. Everything they did defied logic. Bruce Lee famously described how we should attempt to be like water: infinitely adaptable, powerful movements without exertion, an irresistible force. And, really, that’s what these two were: fluid force incarnate.

Olajuwon is slightly overshadowed by that other guy who played when he did, Michael Jordan. Many argue that the Rockets rings during that period don’t count because Jordan wasn’t in the league, but that, as Bomani Jones has said, ignores what Olajuwon was. Olajuwon had everything. It was unfair having to play him. He was big. He was fast. He had a post game. He had a jump shot. He had that incomparable “Dream Shake.” And, to top it all off, he was smart. He understood how other players approached the games, and could shut them down because of it. If setting up on the outside didn’t work, he could always move past them. He blew past defenders because they often underestimated what he could really do. After winning his fourth ring, Kobe Bryant went to Olajuwon to make himself better, to gain insight from the master. For me, Olajuwon is the reason Yao was always so great to watch and Dwight Howard is so infuriating: every once in a while, Yao would show a flash of understanding what Hakeem knew, and Howard, despite his unparalleled potential, hasn’t pushed himself to that level yet. Dwight has the potential and the size to be a new Olajuwon, but for whatever reason, whether it’s because he’s too nice, or more in tuned to the defensive part of the game, or whatever, he hasn’t hit that yet, when he could be doing so much more. But, I’ll keep watching him, waiting, hoping for that light to go on, and for him to move immediately after he gets the ball before the defense can get set, for him to use his intuition and understanding more than his long arms.

That’s, for me, what makes basketball so entertaining: that blend of pure athleticism with grace and intelligence. Wilt could have plowed over guys, and Russell could have one more on offense, but neither did it because they didn’t have to. Olajuwon’s presence on the court has never really been measured by stats, because with him on the interior, especially coupled with Cylde Drexler, it opened up shots for Kenny Smith and others beyond the arc. There are plenty of assists from Olajuwon that were never recorded because of an extra pass. By stepping on the court, he changed how the game would be played. Playing him one on one was never an option, since it essentially meant leaving him open. To see that happen is so rare, it’s impossible not ot get excited when there’s a possibility. While the Lebrons, Kobes, and Michaels of the world (rightfully) get applause for their feats, and the Tim Duncans (though there really may only be one of him) get respect for understanding their role and excelling at it, the Howards and the Amares of the world are the players I watch intently because so much of what they do can go unnoticed if they play the right way. And, if we’re all lucky, one day we’ll see a Yao, a Dwight, or an Amare become a Russell. And that day, giants will walk the earth once more.

Spider-Man 2: The Perfect Love Story

A few years back, “Dark Knight” garnered a lot of well deserved attention after it came out, and became a cultural phenomenon. The film became one of the highest grossing in history and changed the landscape of superhero films if nothing else. Christopher Nolan had managed to give the world a film about superheroes that not only fit the character, but brought the audience into the world of the hero, where for an hour and a half, a guy in clown makeup became the scariest thing on the planet. Keep in mind, the Joker is probably the most famous mass murderer in American Fiction, so seeing him up on the screen should create this kind of reaction. Nolan did what Burton and the other previous directors couldn’t: he gave movie audiences the same feeling comic readers have had for over seventy years. Batman was never just a dude in a suit, the Joker was never only a guy with a weird sense of humor, and Harvey Dent wasn’t just an attorney. All three represented something bigger than themselves. Nolan created an almost perfect comic book movie. Too bad Sam Raimi beat him to it.

Spider-Man 2 will always be, in my mind, the first time a comic book movie was done exactly right. Now, first off, let me say that there are plenty of good to great comic movies out there. A lot of people go back to Superman, which I can’t really comment on since it came out thirteen years before I was born, other than to say that I’m sure it was excellent at the time. But the problem I have with that movie, assuming we accept Luthor, is that if Superman can reverse time, why doesn’t he go back and prevent everything bad from happening? Why does he just save Lois? Isn’t that kind of selfish? The movie brings up more moral quandaries and questions about Superman as a person than it should because of that one scene. The first Spider-Man movie was good, but had its share of problems, but a lot of those, aside from having Willem Dafoe dress up in a power ranger costume to play the Green Goblin, were because it was an origin story. Spider-Man 3 had a lot of potential, but between doing what the studio wanted, trying to be funny, and trying to bring a bunch of plotlines together, that got lost in the jumble that was three main villains, two love interests, and an emo Saturday Night Fever dance routine. X-Men 2 is clearly the strongest from that series. Both of the Hellboy films are excellent, even if they don’t follow Mike Mignola’s excellent comic stories. But, still, none of them quite measure up to Spider-Man 2.

Spider-Man 2 stands above all others, because what we get in Spider-Man 2 is a film that gets exactly who Peter Parker is and taps into the reason the audience connects with him. Peter is a guy whose life sucks before he gets powers, and then starts sucking even more after he gets them. You’d think, at the very least, that with his awesome web-slinging powers, he’d be able to deliver a pizza across town on time. Nope. He winds up losing his job because he saves a kid from getting hit by a truck. And that, my friends, is Peter Parker in a nutshell. Peter is trying to balance everything but he just can’t. Between school, saving people’s lives, trying to make rent money, and keeping up with his friends, he’s always letting someone down. He can’t let anyone get hurt, so he takes the pain on himself. If stopping an armed robbery means failing a test, he’ll deal with it. After losing his uncle, Peter can’t bear to see anyone hurt, and he’s always going to feel responsible for allowing it to happen. It’s what defines him. It’s why he’s willing to let the woman he loves marry another man. As an audience, we connect with that, because we’re the only ones who know Peter’s secret, so it hurts us when he doesn’t make enough money at the Bugle. We know he’s a good person, and it’s tough watching him struggle because he does the right thing. Tobey Maguire does an excellent job of portraying Peter, giving him enough angst to balance out the humor, and make Peter really seem like the kindest guy on the planet.

The other side of the coin is Doctor Octopus. Otto Octavius is a scientist who’s trying to make the world a better place by trying to give the world a clean and efficient renewable energy source. But, alas, he doesn’t check his calculations, and everything goes horribly wrong. He winds up killing his wife because of his own hubris and becomes a monster with four mechanical arms. Raimi brilliantly handles making this transformation, giving it the air of a monster movie. I think he’s had some past experience with those. Anyway, the scene in the hospital excellently sets up the power and the horror of the arms, and manages to pay tribute to the classic movie villains while doing so. What we see in Otto is a man who has become overwrought with grief, pride, and outside influence enough to become a monster. He doesn’t want to rule the world or to hurt other people, he’s just concerned with finishing his work. Alfred Molina gives Octavius humanity so that the supervillain becomes someone we understand. When he meets his doom, though, it is as a hero who refuses to “die as a monster.” I wonder if killing Dr. Octopus off was the best answer, but to give the character the proper finale, and to reunite him with his wife, I suppose he has to die. But a point to remember is that Spider-man defeats Octavius not with his fists, but with his mind. There’s no way Peter could have beat him one on one, but because he used his head, he was able to solve the problem. And that’s the magic of Spider-Man: fists don’t solve everything.

Both of these parts of the film, the relatable hero who can’t be with the woman he loves, and the villain who we can relate to, are important pieces to the whole arc of the film. But “Dark Knight” has both of these as well. What puts Spider-Man 2 over the top, in my opinion, is the way it captures the spirit and energy of the character. As great as “Dark Knight” is, it is almost impossible to watch it and walk away smiling. With Spider-Man 2, it’s impossible not to smile. Seeing Peter recite poetry never fails to make me feel awkward. When Doc Ock climbs up the side of the bank with Aunt May, I always gasp. Every time Peter and Mary Jane meet at the end of the film, I can’t help but grin. The film manages to bring enough light and hope to the screen that I can’t help but love every second of it. No matter what’s going on, it makes me feel something. The absolute best part of the film, though, for me, is the end, where finally, FINALLY, our hero, after dealing with his pain all alone while we’ve been with him, has someone who knows his secret, and better yet, appreciates him for it. Say what you will about Kirsten Dunst (and believe me, I’ve said plenty,) the look in her eyes when Mary Jane finally realizes that Peter is Spider-Man is incredible. In that look, she understands how good Peter is and how tough everything he’s been through must have been. She knows how terrible everything she’s taken for granted is. And she realizes how much pain and guilt he carries with him. When they finally kiss at the end of the film, we applaud it not only because the hero gets the girl he’s been chasing all this time, but also because someone finally sees everything that he does. He doesn’t have to carry the weight alone anymore. He’s found someone who is willing to take risks just to be with him because the thought of letting him go it alone anymore is beyond agonizing. And, what’s more, is that we know he deserves it. Seeing Peter finally get kissed as Peter means as much to us as the audience as it does to him. We know that he deserves love, and now, at last, he has it. And nothing is more perfect than that.

Unforgiven: Why The West Was Lost

I don’t like best of lists. Well, let me amend that a bit. I don’t like making best of lists. My favorite books and albums are probably not going to be your favorite books and albums. There’s nothing wrong with that, really, because a certain song or television show can hit us at the right time, and no matter what, nothing is going to beat it. It’s all subjective. I especially hate ranking films, just because it’s hard to do, and I know I’d forget some great ones. I know what my favorites are, but there are plenty I haven’t seen, and I’m not going to say that those don’t count. So, instead of assigning a film a number, I look to see if a film accomplishes what it sets out to do. That way, I can judge a film based on its own merits, rather than the merits of another film. I’m letting the film set up its own rules, or at least that’s what I think I’m doing.

By that standard, Unforgiven, for what it is, is almost a perfect film. It is, without a doubt one of my all time favorite Westerns. It sets out to deconstruct the entire genre, and for all intents and purposes, that’s exactly what it does. Unforgiven is a Western with a film noir point of view. It’s a film about retired gunmen getting pulled back into the so called blaze of glory they remember from the good ol’ days, when the good ol’ days weren’t really that great. Clint Eastwood’s protagonist isn’t really all that different than Gene Hackman’s antagonist. They both left the life of gun play and bullets behind to build a new life for themselves, but in the end, they can’t escape who they are or what they’ve done.

It all starts because of a laugh. A whore gets cut up after laughing at a patron, and that makes all the other dominos fall. The other whores get their money together and offer a reward for the death of the cowboy who cut up their friend and his accomplice. When the cowboys come back to repay the man who owns the brothel, one of them offers his best horse to make amends, but by that point, there is no way to stop what’s been set in motion. Word has gotten out, and nothing will ever be the same again.

Hackman plays the film’s “villain,” the town Sheriff, Little Bill. Little Bill isn’t a bad man; he’s a former cowboy who’s finally put his guns away and settled down. He’s building his own house. He doesn’t allow guns in his town. He doesn’t kill anyone. He’s got a temper, but, that’s really about it. His main concern is keeping the peace in his little town and keeping bounty hunters and cowboys out. The whores don’t think he punishes the cowboys enough, and that’s when they set up their reward. Little Bill’s discretion brings everything down around him. It only takes one mistake. When English Bob comes into the city, he takes his guns, and beats him in front of his biographer to send a message to anyone who’s even thinking of trying to collect the “whore’s gold.” Bill’s problem, though, is that, like English Bob, he begins to believe his own hype. He tells the biographer stories about Bob, and himself when they were younger. But, after setting the record straight about Bob, he begins to see himself as a romanticized hero rather than what he really is. And that’s his downfall. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Eastwood plays William Munny, a former outlaw who left behind the alcohol and the guns when he met his wife. After she died, though, times got rough for him and his kids, so when an opportunity for some cash comes along, he has to take it. Eastwood here is analogous to the old samurai warriors who pick up their sword for one last mission. Despite how hard he tries, he can’t escape his past. He is old, he is rusty, and he has no choice. All he’s ever been good at is killing other people, and now it’s time to accept his destiny. He grabs his old friend Ned, Morgan Freeman, and they go off with an inexperienced and nearly blind kid who thinks highly of himself. As they go out, they find the cowboys and begin their work as assassins. When they kill the first one, though, as he dies, they begin to understand the gravity of their actions. He dies in pain, begging for water while everyone hears him. All of a sudden, the nobility of defending women and facing down the ruffians has been stripped away, and all that’s left is a man who’s dying, trapped under a horse for something he didn’t do. The second cowboy is shot by the Kid who has the courage to shoot him while he’s on the toilet. There is no glory to what these men do, and there’s nothing enviable about them that can be romanticized. They are killers, just trying to live with themselves.

“It don't seem real... how he ain't gonna never breathe again, ever... how he's dead. And the other one too. All on account of pulling a trigger,” the Kid says.

“It's a hell of a thing, killing a man. Take away all he's got and all he's ever gonna have,” responds Will.

“Yeah, well, I guess they had it coming.”

“We all have it coming, kid.”

After Ned is killed by Little Bill, the Kid finally understands the magnitude of what Will really is, and how he’s become the legendary killer. The Kid decides he’s had enough, but Will, after he gets a little help from the bottle, goes off to avenge his friend. He finds Ned’s body adorning a bar where Little Bill is getting ready to go after Will. In most Westerns, the bad guy would be hiding from the Sheriff, while the Sheriff gathered his forces to go find the horrible killer. Here, Will goes to confront the man who’s killed his friend. Here, numbers are on the Sheriff’s side. Here, Will’s brought a shotgun to finish his work. This is a Western that’s been tinged by the new view of the world. There is no Gary Cooper or John Wayne. There isn’t a clear cut right and wrong. We repeatedly hear about Little Bill’s failures as a carpenter, and how “there isn’t a right angle in the house.” This gives us insight not only to Bill’s character, someone who can’t keep his own house straight, but also into the main point of the film. There is no solid ground; everything is tilted.

 “That's right. I've killed women and children. I've killed just about everything that walks or crawled at one time or another. And I'm here to kill you, Little Bill, for what you did to Ned,” the terrible William Munny says when he finally confronts Little Bill Daggett. He takes down the room full of armed men. And, as he faces Little Bill, who’s crawling on the floor, to a gun, one of my favorite exchanges in cinema history occurs, and we see not only the theme of the film, but one of the many themes in our lives play out between Little Bill and Will Munny.

“I don’t deserve this…to die like this. I was building a house.”

“Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it.”

“I’ll see you in Hell, William Munny.”

“Yeah.”

*Blam*

Steve Earle and Ron Marz: Brothers in Defiance

            There are a few people who can only be happy when they’re outside the system. For whatever reason, they do their best work when they set their own rules and don’t have to worry about the demands of other people. A lot of people can just do their job, and even though they’re bothered by the constraints, they cope, and they do their work. This is how most people live their lives, because it’s a reasonable thing to do, at least for most, but there are a  few who can’t put themselves in a box, regardless of how big the box might be. Personally, I work best when I can do my own thing. I need goals and expectations, but if I can do it my way, it goes a lot better than when I have someone checking up on me a lot. I think that’s more common, but there are plenty of people who are resistant to the system itself and everything about it. One of my best friends, a guy named Mike is like this. Once he started setting the rules for himself, there was no way he was going back to letting someone else tell him when he could eat. Some people are just wired this way, they break the expectations of society, but because they do, they can excel more than they would have before.

One of the best examples of this, in my opinion, is Steve Earle. Earle was unwaveringly unique with his sound and his music, despite what his label wanted. He famously flipped a table over on an executive at a restaurant because they wanted him to change an album cover. After Earle was dropped from his first label after multiple conflicts and confrontations, he fell into a drug fueled depression. After finally coming out of rehab, he was picked up in 1995 and released an acoustic album that became one of his most acclaimed, “Train a Comin’” which was well received commercially, even though Earle complained about the song order being incorrect. Where most would be happy to just be given another shot, Earle was more concerned about his art than he was his health, in every way imaginable. Never afraid to voice his political stances, Earle released the album “Jerusalem” in 2002, which tackled the attacks of September 11^th, and the misrepresentations of Islam. Earle even wrote a song about the American Taliban, John Walker Lindh. “Death machines were rumblin’ across ground where Jesus stood” he sings in the title track of the album, as he comments on the irony of where the world truly lies. Earle thrives because he has the ability to break the rules. Many companies would have balked at his demands throughout his career, but because of his commitment to his craft, he managed to present music that, while somewhat controversial, was also very effective and thought provoking. Earle had the courage to put out an honest statement about how he felt, consequences be darned, and he did it in such a way that even those who disagreed with him could find some common ground. I don’t know that any of that would have been possible if he was concerned with what the guys behind the desks at the label thought. That’s the same confidence that allowed him to do an album with the Del McCoury band in 1999, a year before “O Brother Where Art Thou” made bluegrass more acceptable in the mainstream. The same thing that allowed him to do a tribute to a man he named his son after when many had forgotten Towns Van Zandt. When more popular musicians are concerned about auto tone or busy talking about all the celebrities they’ve slept with, Earle sits in his room and writes. While he’s not as far out of the system as a Tom Waits, he has very clearly defined himself a niche for his success.

Ron Marz is another example of someone who manages to defy the way things “should be” and create work that still resonates after a decade. Marz is probably most famous as the guy who ruined Green Lantern. At least that’s the image some people on the internet cling to. Well, that and that he hates women because he had a bad guy kill a superhero's girlfriend. What they fail to mention, though, is that Marz brought new life to the character and managed to completely refine and redefine everything in the Green Lanterns world, while still acknowledging the importance of what had come before. Marz did things that very few comic book writers would have been brave enough to do at the time, but he didn’t do them to be edgy or to shake things up: he did them(and still does them) because it made sense for the characters and it made the stories better. While most remember the violence associated with Marz’ work, what they forget is that, more often than not, from what I’ve read, it mostly occurs off panel, so the violence is actually a product of the audience’s imagination. Marz manages to engage the audience, to make them willing participants in the world he’s created, and take characters that had become stale or one note, and transform them into real and engaging people. There is an understated elegance in giving an artist a weapon that works off of imagination, and that’s exactly what Marz did with Kyle Rayner. Despite this, though, and despite great work for both major publishers, Marz decided to work for Top Cow and help them reshape their universe into a thriving and exciting world of depth. He defied the system by leaving the big companies, going to work for a publisher that was mainly known for having great artists but little content, and making it work. He has now made a book about a random team member of Cyber Force a must read. One of the primary points of emphasis in his books, to me, at least, is the idea that no matter how hard we try, we are all still human. It is, to me, an exploration of the human spirit fighting against the world and every other power, attempting to control the uncontrollable. That’s stuck with me, I think, because it is a universal truth: we never want to accept that we can’t control everything. And that’s important to note, because while we don’t want to become slaves to the system, we also have to realize that there’s only so much we can do. The point, though, is that no matter if we win or lose, we should be uncompromisingly individual. If we can’t be ourselves, no one else will.

12 Angry Men: Finding Truth in the American Justice System

Watching the Cameron Newton saga unfold on television and the internet shows us, among many things, one particular truth: it doesn’t matter what probably happened, what matters is what can be proven. Now, I’m not going to jump on Cam for doing something he shouldn’t have, because I don’t know that he did. I don’t really think he’s telling the entire truth about the situation, but no one can prove that he knew what his father was doing. That means he’s innocent until proven otherwise. For all we know, Cecil Newton went to Mississippi State behind his son’s back. And if that’s really the case, how is it fair to condemn Cam when there’s even a possibility that he did nothing wrong? Obviously there are people smarter than I am who have looked into this, and know more than I about the topic, but I just think it’s interesting how quick we are to jump this guy who’s just a kid with little to no evidence. Sometimes, though, I guess that stuff doesn’t matter. Some people take out their problems on others for no reason other than it’s easy to do.

Newton illustrates an important point of the American Justice system: in a court of law, it doesn’t matter what probably happened, what matters is what actually happened. “A Few Good Men” makes this distinction often. It’s not enough that Lt. Kaffe knows his clients received an order, he must prove that not only did they get the order, he also has to show that there has been a cover-up by the people in charge, so they can be protected. The Law makes these demands because it has to. A truly fair justice system can never truly happen because it’s based off of flawed people controlling it. Mistakes happen; this is the way the world is. The American Legal system is designed to avoid this, but, like all institutions of man, it is only as effective as the people who take part in it. Luckily, though, the burden of proof is on the prosecution. Sometimes, the wrong person goes to jail, but that has been reduced by this system. Unfortunately, this means that sometimes the right person goes free, but this may very well be the best we can do. The job is left up to a group of the defendant’s peers. That, to me has to be scary for everyone involved. If the prosecutor is wrong, if the defendant is in the wrong place, if the judge makes a crucial decision, if the jury doesn’t talk long enough, someone’s life is greatly affected. The jury itself is one of the worst parts, I’d imagine, because they never asked to be part of the system, they just are, and they have to decide whether someone should go free or be sent to jail. What’s worse, to me, is that  these people will never know if they’ve done the right thing or not.

This is the problem we see in “12 Angry Men” Sydney Lumet’s first voyage into the American justice system. The film opens as the judge finishes his instructions to the jury, and for the next two hours, we live with these men. We know as much about them as they know about one another. We discover who they are as the discussions in the room continue and as they each begin to state their opinions and their experiences as a way to judge the case of a defendant we barely see. The way they describe him, though, throughout the deliberation, it feels like we know him, it feels like we can see everything they describe to us even though we’re stuck in that room with them. What’s great about the film is that you feel everything the jurors feel. The heat, the anger, all of it, comes crashing through the screen, and the drama becomes palpable. One by one, the jurors state how they feel and why they feel that way, and we get a glimpse, nothing more and nothing less into their soul for a limited amount of time as they show who they really are to a group of people they’ve never met before and will never see again. The constraints of tact and courtesy slowly chip away until all we’re left with is twelve men as they really are. They become passionate about something that, a few minutes earlier, meant little to nothing to them, they examine the evidence further than the attorneys in the courtroom ever dreamed of doing, they work off each other, feeding each others passions and arguments. It is one of the finest ensemble pieces ever performed and that’s because each of the actors show every detail of these characters that they can in the little time we’re with them. Their speech patterns, how loudly they speak, even the way they sweat speaks to who they are, and they play off of one another perfectly.  Reasonable doubt is all it takes, but there are plenty in that room who refuse to give it because of one reason or another. Bigotry, personal attachments, even faulty expectations all play a role in why some decide to vote guilty or not guilty. Lumet effectively shows us that each of these men bring an attitude with them from the outside world that affects their decision making so rendering a fair verdict without bias is all but impossible. The actors perform without any real breaks in the action, which might be why everything feels so real. When Lee J. Cobb leaps at Henry Fonda, there’s a sense that anything could happen, especially since every word Cobb utters is coated with a booming malice regardless of what he says. When Jack Klugman stands up to Ed Begley, it feels real. Everything, from the ad executives flip flopping to the old man’s speech to the sports fans frustration at losing his tickets to the foreigners explanation, all of it feels honest, because each of these men provide enough energy and honesty to make these characters come alive in a short amount of time. We see these men without masks or without pretense because the film delicately, but assertively, does away with those things as we go along as we go deeper and deeper into the case. The men represent distinct pieces of our culture that come together to do their civic duty and determine if a boy accused of committing a crime deserves to be part of society any more. The film brings the audience into it and challenges our assertions about what we should and shouldn’t accept and how deeply we look at other people. Because, in the end, we really don’t know anything. One of the characters even says as much to Fonda when he asks what happens if the boy really killed his father. But that’s not the point, really. The point, for better or for worse, is doing the best we can with the information we have presented. And that’s all anyone can be asked to do.

Charlie Brown's Christmas: Finding Peace in a World of Commercialism

“A Charlie Brown Christmas” should be seen at least once a year, regardless of your religious affiliation or how you feel about the Peanuts. See, it’s about more than Charlie Brown trying to put on his little play or Snoopie being funny, or even Linus’ moving speech. The special is about Christ, God, the human spirit, faith, and most importantly, who we are as human beings.

Charlie Brown manages to find a tree that he relates to. It’s not the biggest, it’s not the prettiest, and it’s certainly not the best of the lot. The tree looks bad. But that’s the point. When Chuck originally set out, everyone wanted him to buy a nice plastic, pink tree or something that would look good. Instead, he went out and bought a real tree. Where everyone else was concerned about appearance and having the cool new thing, Charlie went against the grain, and found something that, while unimposing at first, suited him. It was a tree that everyone dismissed, that was forgotten, that didn’t belong, which is exactly how Charlie felt dealing with the commercialism of Christmas. The Christmas play he’s trying to direct is a jumbled mess, because the actors are far too concerned with their own wants to bother with those of others, especially that old blockhead Charlie Brown. His sister demands cash from Santa. Everywhere he looks, he sees a new product to buy. Finally, Linus shares with us all, the true meaning of Christmas. The true meaning of Christmas is delivered by angels to lowly shepherds watching their flock, and they are told of good news for all men. This revelation breaks Charlie Brown free from everything he’d been so concerned about and lets him really see what Christmas is all about. It is, he finds, less about the hustle and bustle, the demands of commercialism, and Santa, than it is about peace finally arriving on Earth and sharing that peace with all people. With this in mind, he picks up his symbol of uniqueness, the symbol of his soul, and walks out, leaving the people that he was so concerned about a moment ago behind. He finally breaks free from all the expectations that have been heaped on by himself and his friends, and he finally enjoys what the moment was always supposed to be about. When he broke free of what the world believed in, he brought his friends with him, so that when he was discouraged, they could lift him up, and dress the tree, clearly representative of Charlie Brown himself, up as the magnificent symbol it always could have been. Because he denied the ways of the world, he found himself free to truly be as he was.

The tree, though, represents more than just Charlie Brown. It is a symbol for various religions and faiths as well. Like the Menorah in the Hanukkah story, no one expected the tree to do much, but it served its purpose and brought light to the darkness and to the world. In the Biblical Christmas story, Christ came into the world poor and unimpressive. Throughout His life, he was slandered and attacked. And yet, His true glory was revealed when He broke the hold the world held over man. At His birth, he brought both kings from the east and poor shepherds together, as they searched for Peace. And even though some did not understand the true nature of Christ, His glory came through.

When everyone else realizes what Charlie Brown’s known all along, that the tree really is special, that things have value not for what they are, but what they can be, it is then that they are freed from the commercialism and the thinking of the world to see the true potential of not only the tree, but of Charlie Brown, and that little babe in Bethlehem. The world, they find, does not see hope and goodness, but only common sense and money. They become corrupted by it because they’ve lived in it too long. At first they don’t want to break free from what they know, because they know it’ll be difficult, but Charlie Brown and his little tree spur them on, make them think, challenge their notions of what’s important, what has value, and why those are true. Charlie Brown found his way by listening to Linus’ words, and believing that his tree was special and worthy of attention. Once he received direction, he finally had the courage to do what he had known he should’ve done all along and strike out on his own. Charlie Brown, after all, is us. He’s what we go through every year, every month, every day, where we struggle and become concerned with the wrong things, forgetting what is really important. We’re all searching for that moment when everything becomes clear, where we finally understand what the shepherds did that night when the angels spoke to them, and we can see what we couldn’t from the other side. The end, after all, is so darned hard to see during the journey. It is only afterwards that we understand that every step was important. When it finally all becomes clear, then we can see ourselves, not as the flawed, broken shells we are now, but as the people that we always could have been. The dependence on material goods for happiness is foolhardy, because the toys don’t wind up forever, and that’s what Charlie Brown struggles with. When he finally hears the message the angels bring, the news that peace is among us, that joy has finally come, his search is over. He finally understands what those words “Merry Christmas” are supposed to mean, and he realizes that everything he thought was so important, everything that he was so concerned with before, everything that prevented him from being happy, it didn’t really matter. He finally found the Peace he had been searching so earnestly for, and it set him free. I can only hope that we’re all so lucky.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Spider-Man: Why Dan Slott is John Hughes

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” This line, said by Ferris Bueller is repeated often. You’re likely to hear it at graduation speeches, funerals, and even weddings. The reason for that is simple; people say it because it’s true. We have a tendency to get bogged down in worrying about things we can’t control that we forget to enjoy what we have. The problem with Ferris’ approach, though, is that it requires someone like Cameron to offer the proper balance. Cameron brings reason into Ferris’ world, and while it’s true that Ferris loosens Cameron up from being uptight, Cameron also manages to bring Ferris back down to earth. The two sides need one another to achieve any semblance of balance. Without Ferris, Cameron remains miserable and can never enjoy what he has. Without Cameron, Ferris never takes anything seriously and never accomplishes anything. This relationship is important because it saves them from themselves. We see that they care for one another, but we also see that they need one another, and that’s really why it matters. The pieces of the Bueller crew each represent a different part of

our psyche. Ferris is id, Sloane is ego, and Cameron is superego. Each piece is necessary, and each piece is flawed. John Hughes makes these characters real and endearing so that, decades later, they’re still relevant. That’s part of his magic and one of his big strengths as a filmmaker. Hughes gave these characters enough gravitas and honesty that they didn’t seem fake or stupid or even unlikeable for the most part. He gave us teenagers that weren’t punks when, in real life, many of them most certainly are. That’s why I’ve always thought he would’ve made a great Spider-Man movie.

Obviously, Spider-Man has guilt issues. Like Batman level guilt issues. Letting that thief get away will haunt him forever, and because of that one mistake, he’s bound by his responsibilities to doing everything he can and more to help people. Peter Parker has never thought he did enough to help people. That, really, is the curse that Ben Parker left on his life. No matter what he does, it’s never going to be enough because his uncle’s never coming back. This defines Peter. He will never be light and free to smell the roses because of it. Peter has his responsibilities and that’s what matters. But that’s where Spider-Man comes in. See, Spider-Man is more than Peter’s costumed identity, it’s his outlet. The mask allows him to break lose, to crack jokes, to have fun. The moments he has in costume are easier for Peter because everything is simpler. While he still thinks about things, being in costume means worrying about the rent, how upset his girlfriend is, or even his Aunt’s health takes a back seat. There’s a bad guy and he has to be punched. Even though it makes his life outside the suit more complicated, his life inside the suit is necessary not only because it’s his responsibility but also because it frees him. He doesn’t have any super villains to punch as Peter Parker because they aren’t wearing brightly colored outfits to announce themselves as villains. As Parker, he has to worry about keeping everything a secret unless someone finds out and puts his loved ones at risk. Peter is left with the cleanup that comes from being Spider-Man and the damage that brings to his life. In a way, Peter is Cameron, and Spider-Man is Ferris. Both sides need one another to exist. One without the other misses an integral part of Spider-Man’s endearing characteristics. Spider-Man, above all other things has to be young and he has to be responsible. Because Spider-Man has to be young, I have grown to accept One More Day as time has passed. The youth, the faults, the attitude, all made Spider-Man into what he is today, and if that’s taken away, the character loses the allure. If the responsibility is taken away, though, then the very purpose of the character is demolished. Hughes would’ve been perfect to capture this balance, I think, because he did it so often on camera so often. With his mastery of the drama of high school and his portrayal of kids, Spider-Man might have turned out okay, even back in the 80s. This, oddly enough, brings me to Dan Slott.

In the grand scheme of things, Dan hasn’t written much Spider-Man. Sure he’s done a few storylines in Amazing and other places, and he’s now the head writer on the series going forward. But it’s not like he’s Roger Stern or Stan Lee, in terms of longevity. That being said, he may very well wind up having a better run on the book than either writer. Now, breaking out the Stan comparison is a little unfair, since he set the bar, along with Ditko, back in 1963, and they set it pretty freaking high. But Slott has earned that comparison because he gets the character like only those two other writers have really gotten it. See, when he writes Spider-Man, it’s fun. For whatever reason, writers over the past few runs that have spanned decades have made Spidey seem like a punching bag. Everything gets heaped up on him more and more. When Slott writes it, though, you can tell Peter’s having fun in the costume. What’s more, you can tell that Peter is finally handling his responsibilities outside of the costume better than he ever has, realizing that he has gifts that have to be used that didn’t come with the spider bite. Peter, after being beaten and kicked for thirty years, has finally become his own person with some degree of freedom and a way to make himself better. Slott also manages to improve Spidey’s enemies without discarding their previous incarnations. Doctor Octopus is more dependent on technology, but has more abilities because of it. The Hobgoblin is more unpredictable and better armed than ever before. Venom and the Scorpion have become major villains again. And the Sinister Six are finally back together again for the first time. We’re two issues into what I hope is Slott’s major run on Amazing Spider-Man, but already it’s one of my favorites to date. Regardless of what happens in the future, I have an appreciation for what Slott’s done so far with a character that’s been around for over four decades by making him not only relevant again, but making him as relevant as he was when we first met him so many years ago. Peter Parker is doing great things and might just reach his full potential, in and out of the comic. The sheer joy that comes from reading that book is back now, because you can feel the energy and passion that’s been put into it. And that’s going to carry on for decades as well. Because, just like John Hughes, Slott understands what he’s doing and what the audience needs rather than wants. He’s brought pieces from every run that’s come before him together and made it all important to Peter. He’s not playing Peter as somebody who’s been a spectator in his own life. Slott has made Peter seem more like a real person by making the stories that have come before a real piece of Peter’s life. He’s taken something that many would throw away and made it a key part of who the character is. As a result, not only is Peter more believable since his psyche isn’t fighting itself all the time, but the other characters gain more power as well. Now, everything has a real depth to it, more so than it did before. Carroll O'Connor once said the characters on All in the Family were important because they were real to him. Hughes and Slott both seem to share this feeling. Nothing is unimportant. What's more amzaing, though (sorry for the pun) is that they both make the audience feel the same way. And being able to do that requires a master’s touch.

Actors vs. Movie Stars

            In Sin City, someone says of Marv, Mickey Rourke’s character, he “had the rotten luck of being born in the wrong century.” Although Frank Miller wrote these words years before the movie came out, I think this is a perfect description of Rourke's career. He’s not crazy; he was just born too late. If Rourke was born a half century earlier, then his decision to become a boxer at the midpoint of his career would’ve been accepted more, I think. Besides that, though, I think the type of actor Rourke was would have been more accepted back then.  He was always a bit off, he was a guy who everyone knew was great, but he wasn’t really used the right way. Everyone wanted to make him a movie star when he was an actor. And that’s a big distinction. People like Tom Cruise are movie stars, excluding a few standout performances. People like Daniel Day-Lewis are actors. It’s the difference between what Jack Nicholson and Robert DeNiro used to be and what they are today. Movie stars need to have presence; they need to be able to bring people into movies. Actors need to have ability; they need to make their character believable.

This didn’t used to be the case. People like Humphrey Bogart, John Wayne, and Jimmy Stewart were obviously movie stars, but they were also actors first and foremost. And people like Peter Lorre and Claude Rains, who were performers under contract, had the same attitude, even if they weren’t the leading man. Being a character actor back then was something more acceptable than it is today. Lee J. Cobb is one of my favorite character actors because even though he played a similar part in each movie he was in, it never felt like he was short changing the audience and he managed to put these performances in great films like “On the Waterfront” and “12 Angry Men.” But I’m making it sound like these guys were just doing the same thing over and over again and that’s not really the case. Most were excellent actors who embraced side roles. While the posters clamored for the beauty and the handsome lead, some of the best performances were unheralded to the outside world. The main reason for this, I suppose, is, of course, appearance. Look at Peter Lorre. Lorre starred in the film “M” and gives a masterful performance as a murderer on the run. He gives a monster humanity. The problem, though, is that the only way Lorre could get a starring role is for him to portray a murderer. He looked shifty and strange, and so he that’s how he was cast. Talented artists like Lon Chaney and Boris Karloff had to become monsters in order to get leading roles. As time went on, more and more the pretty faces had to do less and less. If you looked good, it didn’t matter if you could act or not. This continued until it’s ballooned into modern cinema. Now I’m not saying that pretty people can have a career without having any kind of talent. But what I am saying is that people like Brad Pitt, Charlie Sheen, and Colin Farrell probably wouldn’t get as much work if it wasn’t for their decent looks. This, to me, is the difference that’s come to hurt Rourke and others like him. Rourke grew tired of being placed into a role that didn’t fit him, and as a result left to find something more accommodating. Granted, taking a job where you get punched by other people repeatedly would not have been my first choice as a second career, but Mickey needed to find himself apparently. But had he been allowed to be an actor and not the face of eight different blockbuster movies, I wonder what would have been.

Now we see Rourke and while he doesn’t headline as many films now, I think he’s happier. He’s allowed to work on his craft. For some people, that’s enough. I think people like Tim Olyphant or Ian McShane are more concerned with doing something they love and getting paid for it than they are with anyone else’s opinion of their work. And that’s why they should’ve been around in the old days.

Olyphant, McShane, and Rourke are guys who have great ability, but don’t get much attention in the Post-Matrix world. Michael Madsen is another example. Madsen has become the go to neo-noir tough guy. He pops up in “Thelma and Louis,” takes on Val Kilmer in “Kill Me Again,” and probably has his most recognizable role in “Reservoir Dogs.” It seems like Madsen uses the same acting techniques that a lot of the older actors did. He’s very minimalistic in his approach, caring less, more often than not, about how a line is said, than with the actions that accompany it. He shows us more than he tells us. In “Kill Bill,” the performance is understated. He rarely, if ever, even raises his voice. But we see his remorse with his body language as he’s being abused, the look in his eyes when he speaks to his brother, and the look on his face as he gives the heroine a task he knows she’ll overcome. He doesn’t do more because he doesn’t need to. In “Reservoir Dogs” he never loses his cool. He’s very methodical about everything he does, and he seems to be having fun with every step he takes, like he’s not taking it for granted. And that’s why he’s scary. There are plenty of other people who give old school performances as well. It seems like Steve Buscemi studied under Peter Lorre for decades sometimes. One of my favorite actors fits this description well, too.

Ron Perlman had to wait until he was 54 to get his first major starring role in the film “Hellboy.” But when it came, he was more than ready to breathe life into the monster that defies his destiny. Perlman has spent decades under makeup, in TV shows like “Beauty and the Beast” and in movies like “The Name of the Rose.” The makeup, though, presents little problem for Perlman. He manages to convey everything even if he’s hidden under devil horns and a red face. But don’t let me pretend like he hasn’t done his share of terrible movies as well. He was in “The Adventures of Captain Zoom in Outer Space” and “Police Academy 7”(Police Academy 7? They made seven Police Academy movies? Jeez.) for crying out loud. But despite this, Perlman has managed not only to carve out a career, but a successful one, that’s lasted three decades and given him a loyal following. Perlman isn’t the best looking guy on screen usually, and he’s not usually given the biggest roles. But when he’s on screen, he’s almost impossible to ignore. He possesses those classic qualities that are almost forgotten in a world of “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” Perlman is in a class with Gary Oldman and Alan Rickman. He’s never too big for a part, he’ll provide a great performance, and he loves his job. What’s special about his performances, though, is that it seems like he’s watched the masters and is giving them new life. He manages to blend Chaney’s facial expressions in with Karloff’s body maneuvers, and throws in Brando’s empathy as well. Perlman manages to show us who he’s supposed to be immediately while making us want to find out more about him. What’s fascinating is that we take him for granted. When he shows up, we know who he is, and we know that he’s there to help or that he’s the bad guy and then we move on all without him hardly saying a word. In “City of Lost Children” Perlman plays a circus strong man trying to find his little brother. Now, first off the film is entirely in French and our friend Ron manages handles the language perfectly. But aside from that, we find his character likable and become attached even though he doesn’t say a word for almost twenty minutes. His face shows his concern, his body shows his frustration, and his eyes show his honesty all before we even know his name. What’s interesting about the film is that Perlman represents the audience’s entry point. He’s our ticket into and around the world created by Jean-Pierre Jeunet that changes with every passing second. Perlman, though, brings the necessary humanity to a world of dream stealers, clones, and talking brains. His concern and his reactions, in a dystopian world of advanced technology and incredible poverty are how we would react in that situation, and we get drawn in by Perlman’s humanity. And that’s what real actors can do and what separates them from the movie stars: they can incest an audience in a film by making that world seem real, regardless of the size of their role. They manage to make us feel something, be it fear or hope, and they can do it without us even noticing it. Too bad most of them are shoved to the side.

Worst Possible Outcome

As I’ve said before, in a lot ways, I’m a Philistine when it comes to sports and my insight into basketball is limited, but I figured I’d say something anyway.

Tomorrow night, the Miami Heat will play the Cleveland Cavaliers. In the grand scheme of things, this game means nothing. It's a game between a team that's a little less than .500 against a team that's a little greater than .500 in December. Ordinarily, the only people who would care are the fans of the respective teams and maybe a few NBA diehards. But we all know that's not really the case.

LeBron James will be back in Cleveland. That means this is the biggest game of the year. One fan referred to it as "Game 7 of the Finals."

Now we can argue back and forth about whether LeBron should be applauded or slammed for his decisions this summer. Many have blasted him, calling him a spoiled child or worse, while others believe he's just trying to win. I'm not educated enough to offer an informed opinion about how the man thinks or why people view him differently (Bill Reitner does a great job of that here) and really, my opinion on James is inconsequential, but just for the record: I'm not a big fan of James as a player or as a person other than to say that he's very good at what he does. He's not as good as he thinks he is, but that comes with the territory of being an athlete. I love Michael Jordan, Hakeem Olajuwan, and Toni Kukoc, but I'm sure that they walked onto the court every game thinking they were the best basketball players to ever walk the earth. Well, except Kukoc, since he played with MJ. And to be fair to MJ and Hakeem, they were both two of the greatest to ever play the game, but I digress. LeBron's a great player. He may not be what everyone wants him to be, but he's still excellent at what he does. He also, if reports are to be believed, someone who buys what he's selling. That's never a good sign. When a salesman buys his own pitch, it's a bad sign because they can't be objective. They become too invested in a product, and they can't do their job.

Now, all that being said, if you look at where the Heat are compared to where they were supposed to be, you can't help but be shocked.

After LeBron decided to take his talents to South Beach, everyone, and I mean everyone except Bomani Jones (who is excellent and who everyone should listen to. Seriously, one of the best sports guys out there) said the Heat were supposed to be incredible. They were supposed to change how we viewed basketball, and be the most dominant team we've ever seen. They were going to shatter the Bulls record and walk to the playoffs. The only possible speed bumps were the elite teams like Orlando, Boston, and, of course, the Lakers. The combination of All-Stars like James, Wade, and Bosh would be all but unstoppable unless teams brought the best they had. They were going to be revolutionary.

Fast forward to December.

The Heat have one win over a good team. They lost to the Pacers at home. Chris Bosh has no inside presence and can't defend well. The scrubs at every other position aren't good enough to be considered role players. Wade's gotten hurt a few times. James is fighting with Coach Eric Spoelstra. This isn't how the script was supposed to go.

While everyone expected there to be some trouble early on, this wasn't supposed to happen. Now, again, we're not even in January yet, so a lot of this is premature and some of the problems should get fixed when everyone's healthy. If Wade and James can work together better, which should happen, that’ll certainly help a lot as well. But that's not going to solve the glaring weaknesses here. Good point guards, like Rondo, Rose, and Williams can exploit their defensive holes. Teams with good power forwards or centers like the Magic can score at will because Bosh is a homeless man’s version of Dirk Nowitzki. Solid teams, like the Jazz, Mavericks, and Spurs, can not only run with them, they can beat them, and they can do so without any more effort than they give against the Nuggets.

The Heat, at least right now, are mediocre.

This is the worst thing that could have happened. They certainly aren’t anywhere near as dominant as we thought they would be. They can’t really be viewed as villains any more, can they? A good villain has to be powerful so it takes a lot to overcome them. All it takes to beat the heat is Derrick Rose and Joakim Noah. But they aren’t terrible either. And there’s the rub. If they were terrible, people would pay to watch the train wreck, to see Dwayne and LeBron do their circus dunks and get embarrassed. People would still be watching because of who was involved. Now? They’re lukewarm. They’re sloppy. They’re not entertaining. They can beat teams like the Wizards but not teams like the Hornets. Unless they improve by June, we’re going to see a team that makes the playoffs in a weak Eastern Conference and might make it to the second round.

I don’t think this is what anybody thought they were signing up for. It’s more than possible that the Heat will lose to the Cavs tomorrow night. The problem now, though, is that it really won’t mean anything. Rooting against the Heat isn’t worth my time. I might catch glimpses of the game or see the highlights later on, but not if something more engrossing like “When Harry Met Sally” or “A Few Good Men” is on for the millionth time. For the time being, the Heat are little more than a cardboard cutout of a team I should dislike. Think about it. Do you know any obnoxious Miami fans? Every team that’s worth hating has their delusional fan bases (Yankees, Red Sox, Lakers, Celtics, Steelers, Patriots, Cowboys, USC, etc.) You’re seeing the worst case scenario. No one cares, or cares that much. It’s like watching the Late Show on CBS. It’s not good, but it’s not bad enough to make me want to turn the channel. I can ignore it. And that's what's really surprising.