I could not stand Matthew Broderick when he was young; after Election, I’m cheered whenever he waddles onto the screen. Since bulking up and slowing down, he’s become ridiculously smooth and low-key, a great comic actor. His boyish face, changing slowly from one bland expression to the next, makes for a perfect mask for the degenerate gambler he plays in Finding Amanda. There are some comedy set pieces in the film, but that’s when the film is least funny (with the exception of Steve Coogan’s first scene). The real laughs are kind of painful, but it’s funny nevertheless to watch the matter-of-fact way Broderick lies to everyone. When he develops an interest in his runaway niece Brittany Snow, a twenty-year old prostitute, it is also seems natural that there’s nothing sexual about it: Being interested in anyone is a new experience for him. The small-group swing and light tone is a perfect mask for a lonely and cutting little movie. Lose the scenes with the wacky dealer and the funny pimp and you’d have a minor gem.
In Cassandra’s Dream, the indispensible Tom Wilkinson has a small role which haunts the entire film, much as he did in Michael Clayton. Here, it’s the moment of rage his character allows himself (directed at Colin Ferrell; the audience sympathizes) that stays in the mind, and keeps the movie from drifting away. It’s noir, all right, but held at a distance, with pretty surfaces and a soundtrack by Phillip Glass and characters theatrically declaiming what’s eating them, and Woody Allen just doesn’t have the stomach for this high-style low-life stuff the way David Mamet does. Oh, listen, it’s better than I’m making it sound. Recommended.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Former Detroit Mayor Reports To Jail Today
I’m tempted to say that I will miss him…
How could I not? In some ways, the last six years in Detroit have been like living inside a really good James Ellroy novel.
…but he won’t be gone that long.
Upon his release: Talk radio show? Pulpit? Both?
(Wikipedia has the Kwame Kilpatrick story well-covered.)
How could I not? In some ways, the last six years in Detroit have been like living inside a really good James Ellroy novel.
…but he won’t be gone that long.
Upon his release: Talk radio show? Pulpit? Both?
(Wikipedia has the Kwame Kilpatrick story well-covered.)
Monday, October 27, 2008
Thurston Ray
This is the first of two stories that appeared on the Muzzle Flash site, which is No More.
The ground above, the sky below.
Lloyd looked through the spiderweb crack in the windshield and the dead branches and ditchwater that crowded it and thought the horizon was the strangest thing he had ever seen.
He fell back to sleep for a minute.
He woke up still behind the wheel of the overturned Lincoln, suspended a few inches below the seat by the seatbelt and shoulder harness.
Lloyd thought of cars flipping over in movies, how they burst into flame, annihilating everything.
He braced himself and wrestled with the seatbelt release and fell onto the roof of his company car.
***
Out of habit, Lloyd reached for his business cards, which were somewhere else, with his belt and his shoes.
He wiped his palm on his pant leg before extending his hand and saying his name.
“Thurston Ray,” his cellmate said. His hand was a dead fish.
***
Thurston Ray was Drunk and Disorderly. He was a gangly local kid with hair that hung in his eyes, jeans gone in the knees, and dirty fingernails.
“How’dya get soaked?”
“I ran,” Lloyd said. Thurston Ray beamed at him. “I ran into a field, but the moon was behind me, and I ran into a fucking swamp.”
“Pond,” Thurston Ray said, and laughed.
***
After Lloyd vomited, he began to worry. He worried for his job with Sunblessed Seed. He needed to get out of the lockup, see to the car repair himself, phone in excuses to his regional manager and to the farmers and greenhouse owners expecting him the next few days.
He could be released on his own recognizance if he paid the bail, Thurston told him; but Lloyd was cash poor, thanks to the titty club his last customer had insisted on visiting.
Thurston Ray had a proposition, which began, “Let me call my mother.”
***
Thurston Ray’s mother was nineteen at the outside. She had short-cropped hair the color of beets, and a wide mouth. She wore capri pants that could have been a tattoo.
The desk cop knew her, Lloyd thought, but he couldn’t say for certain.
In the parking lot all she said was “That’s eight-fifty.”
Lloyd climbed in the aging Camaro and gave the name of his bank.
***
“Fuck!” Thurston Ray’s mother said, shaking the gun at him.
Lloyd explained about his credit limit, slowly, carefully, but she did not want to hear about it.
He had been able to extract enough cash to pay his own bail and Thurston’s – twice over – but fell short of the sum Thurston had, in his phone call from the police station, instructed her to extort.Her bitterness over this shortfall seemed heartfelt. Lloyd guessed the kids planned to blow town on their profit from his misery, and he felt a tremor of the empathy that had led him to discuss his circumstances with Thurston Ray in the first place: for he was also a drunk trying to get down the road.
“What about tomorrow?” she said.
“Tomorrow?”
“Can you get more money out of the ATM tomorrow?”
***
Her name, she said, was Kimberley.
It started when, not wanting to let him out of her sight, she followed him into the motel bathroom.
They were drinking heavily and he could not say how he got the gun away from her.
At 4 AM, he moved her to the trunk of the Camaro.
He parked in the woods, vomited, walked to the other motel in town, and took a room.
***
He drank more and used the phone. He had the Lincoln towed from the impound to the town’s sole garage. He called missed appointments and was mellifluous and cajoling. He was on his game, on the phone.
***
He drank more and used the phone. The garage said their man was devoting all his time to the Lincoln . He called his office, forgot to mute the violent movie on HBO, slurred on “Good morning”, and hung up.
***
On the fourth day he walked to the garage. “Still waiting on a part,” he was told by the mechanic, a gangly local kid with hair that hung in his eyes, jeans gone in the knees, and dirty fingernails.
The ground above, the sky below.
Lloyd looked through the spiderweb crack in the windshield and the dead branches and ditchwater that crowded it and thought the horizon was the strangest thing he had ever seen.
He fell back to sleep for a minute.
He woke up still behind the wheel of the overturned Lincoln, suspended a few inches below the seat by the seatbelt and shoulder harness.
Lloyd thought of cars flipping over in movies, how they burst into flame, annihilating everything.
He braced himself and wrestled with the seatbelt release and fell onto the roof of his company car.
***
Out of habit, Lloyd reached for his business cards, which were somewhere else, with his belt and his shoes.
He wiped his palm on his pant leg before extending his hand and saying his name.
“Thurston Ray,” his cellmate said. His hand was a dead fish.
***
Thurston Ray was Drunk and Disorderly. He was a gangly local kid with hair that hung in his eyes, jeans gone in the knees, and dirty fingernails.
“How’dya get soaked?”
“I ran,” Lloyd said. Thurston Ray beamed at him. “I ran into a field, but the moon was behind me, and I ran into a fucking swamp.”
“Pond,” Thurston Ray said, and laughed.
***
After Lloyd vomited, he began to worry. He worried for his job with Sunblessed Seed. He needed to get out of the lockup, see to the car repair himself, phone in excuses to his regional manager and to the farmers and greenhouse owners expecting him the next few days.
He could be released on his own recognizance if he paid the bail, Thurston told him; but Lloyd was cash poor, thanks to the titty club his last customer had insisted on visiting.
Thurston Ray had a proposition, which began, “Let me call my mother.”
***
Thurston Ray’s mother was nineteen at the outside. She had short-cropped hair the color of beets, and a wide mouth. She wore capri pants that could have been a tattoo.
The desk cop knew her, Lloyd thought, but he couldn’t say for certain.
In the parking lot all she said was “That’s eight-fifty.”
Lloyd climbed in the aging Camaro and gave the name of his bank.
***
“Fuck!” Thurston Ray’s mother said, shaking the gun at him.
Lloyd explained about his credit limit, slowly, carefully, but she did not want to hear about it.
He had been able to extract enough cash to pay his own bail and Thurston’s – twice over – but fell short of the sum Thurston had, in his phone call from the police station, instructed her to extort.Her bitterness over this shortfall seemed heartfelt. Lloyd guessed the kids planned to blow town on their profit from his misery, and he felt a tremor of the empathy that had led him to discuss his circumstances with Thurston Ray in the first place: for he was also a drunk trying to get down the road.
“What about tomorrow?” she said.
“Tomorrow?”
“Can you get more money out of the ATM tomorrow?”
***
Her name, she said, was Kimberley.
It started when, not wanting to let him out of her sight, she followed him into the motel bathroom.
They were drinking heavily and he could not say how he got the gun away from her.
At 4 AM, he moved her to the trunk of the Camaro.
He parked in the woods, vomited, walked to the other motel in town, and took a room.
***
He drank more and used the phone. He had the Lincoln towed from the impound to the town’s sole garage. He called missed appointments and was mellifluous and cajoling. He was on his game, on the phone.
***
He drank more and used the phone. The garage said their man was devoting all his time to the Lincoln . He called his office, forgot to mute the violent movie on HBO, slurred on “Good morning”, and hung up.
***
On the fourth day he walked to the garage. “Still waiting on a part,” he was told by the mechanic, a gangly local kid with hair that hung in his eyes, jeans gone in the knees, and dirty fingernails.
Muzzle Flash RIP
Muzzle Flash has followed Murdaland and Demolition and Hard Luck Stories (and Flashing in the Gutters, and...) to the netherworld.
Hopefully Plots With Guns and Thug Lit will soldier on.
Thanks and best of luck to MF editor DZ Allen.
The two stories of mine that DZ was kind enough to accept for Muzzle Flash will turn up here soon.
Hopefully Plots With Guns and Thug Lit will soldier on.
Thanks and best of luck to MF editor DZ Allen.
The two stories of mine that DZ was kind enough to accept for Muzzle Flash will turn up here soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
