Traveling Man

Dirty Harry

The right time to watch Dirty Harry is Sunday morning.  The film starts with church bells, which continue to ring, in one fashion or the other, throughout the movie.

Sound can be important to a film, but images are everything.  DH starts with the image of a generic San Francisco police badge.  The camera eye scrolls down the names of real San Francisco police officers killed in action and named on a memorial.  Cut to a shot of the badge again, alone against a bare background.

Cut to a middle shot of a rooftop swimming pool.  In the background we can see the bay; in the foreground, we see a pretty young girl in a yellow one-piece.  She rises from her lounge chair, walks to the head of the pool, and assumes the position - that is, holds her arms at her sides and prepares to dive into the otherwise empty pool.  Behind her we can read a sign: Swim at your own risk.  The odd score, with an organ, snare drum, and other instruments, weave an eerie, Vincent Price mood.

Long shot as she dives in and swims across the pool.  The camera pulls back and we see a higher rooftop and a sniper with a silenced rifle.  Close-up as she turns in the pool and begins to swim back.  Close-up of the rifle and trigger finger.  Close-up as she turns again, then a tight shot of the red splash on her flesh as she's hit and sinks, Christlike, into the water.

We've just seen the opening to Jaws.

Cut to Clint Eastwood coming onto through a door the rooftop.  A cop is beside the door, guarding it, and others stand about.  We see a man in a robe - the one who obviously discovered the girl - and the girl's body lying by the pool and covered with a blanket.

This is Brody's first look at the girl's body in Jaws.

However, Dirty Harry was released in 1971, and Jaws in 1975.  Kudos to one of my favorite directors, Don Siegel, for being there first.

A few scenes later in the film, Callahan has to interrupt his lunch to deal with a bank robbery in progress.  After wounding the first bandit to emerge from the bank, and then shooting the other two, he approaches the first bandit,  who's lying on the ground and looking at his nearby shotgun.

"I know what you're thinking," Callahan says. "'Did he fire six shots or only five?' Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

After the man surrenders, he demands the truth.  Callahan cocks his .44 and fires, but the chamber is empty.  The man gasps anyway.

However, I replayed the action and only counted four shots.  There were two live rounds in the pistol.

Today, the most powerful handgun in the world is probably the .500 S&W Magnum.  It has the same problem as the .44, that its powerful recoil forces a shooter to reacquire the target after each shot; that fact makes the gun impractical for police officers.

I used to fire my brother's pistols at the target range, including a .44 Magnum and a silver .45 automatic that was a joy to shoot.  Target shooting is really quite entertaining.  However, a lifetime of experience has shown me that human beings simply aren't mature enough to use weapons like these properly.  If there is a proper use. 

In fact, we need to cleanse the entire planet of technologically advanced weapons, including military hardware.  We won't, because we're afraid.  Fear drives the "need" for weapons.  First, we need to vanquish fear. 

Nothin' else to say.

High Noon

When I can steal a Saturday morning or afternoon to myself, I watch Westerns.  I grew up in Texas and believed in the Western's virtues, and have never been completely disillusioned of them, so it's pleasant to kick back and watch a good Western in action.  Today it was a double bill, and two of our culture's finest morality plays: High Noon and The Tin Star.

In High Noon, the lines of conflict are clearly drawn.  The antagonist is a psychotic killer released from prison on a technicality and bent on revenge against Will; Will is a marshal who tamed Hadleyville and then dedicated his adult years to protecting it, and now quits the job to marry a Quaker girl and get on with the rest of his life.  Though it's his last day as marshal, Will decides to stand and fight against the coming storm.  The townspeople disagree with his logic and deny him any help.

Although most perceive High Noon as a great Western, I've never thought of it as more than entertaining.  I enjoy Gary Cooper's performance in the film, but the marshal as a whole is a bit stiff (his name is WILL, for Godssake.  And Biblically speaking, KANE.)  Of course, the point of the film, and that of Westerns, is that virtue is not negotiable; you're either on the side of the angels or you're not.  That Quaker/new wife Grace Kelly (bless the producers for casting her) has to commit to Cooper's point of view - violating her own pacifist dreams - to save his life is what troubles me.  If he were the slightest bit human, he would have been able to acquire the deputies he needed to stand up to the intruders, and not have to bend his principles at all.

Ive been told that presidents in the White House request screenings of this film.  God help us if they're trying to "be like Coop".  I don't think this film is about law and order, or about standing up for the weak, or even standing fast against the various evils of the world.  I think it's about love.  Only Kane's wife gives him unconditional love, and that's why he rides off with her at the end.

Then Laurie and I watched The Tin Star.  Both these films were made in the 1950s, and this one's perfect for a ten-year-old boy sitting in a theater on a Saturday morning, lap full of popcorn, balancing a  Coke and two hot dogs, and enchanted as the story unfolds.

The cliche-burdened plot moves brightly.  Henry Fonda offers his usual subtle and impeccable performance.  The dialogue is sometimes brilliant, sometimes simply longwinded.  Anthony Mann's town shots are for the most part mundane.  However, in the hills, he gives us moments of brilliance and clarity.  Most importantly, we end up in the right place - physically, emotionally, and morally (I block out the gooey epilogue that wraps up all the loose ends).  And I'm out of popcorn.

The Tin Star is based on a story by Barney Slater and Joel Kane.
Oddly, High Noon is based on a pulp story called The Tin Star.

Bedouin tribes ascending

I've always lusted for guitars.  While I was still a teenager, I owned a Gibson Hummingbird, a Rickenbacker (the same style John Lennon played on Ed Sullivan), and a Fender Stratocaster (made famous by Jimi Hendrix), all at the same time.  Amazingly, those guitars were affordable then.  We had a band called Private Dryve (or Pryvate Drive - I can't remember).  I wanted to name the band Empire, but I was outvoted.  Like most garage band quartets of the 1960s, we had roles within the band: I was the iconoclast and rhythm guitarist, and sang as little as possible.  We were awful as musicians, too, but it was a lot of fun to play.   My least-forgettable moment was jamming with a garage band that later had a Number One hit, then disappeared from the mainstream.  They were visionary, though.  Brilliant artists.  I'll leave them alone.

In 1981, while in New York on a business trip to see Isaac Asimov (a deal that didn't work out), I wandered through Central Park and later found myself in front of the Dakota, where Yoko Ono lived and where John had been gunned down on that sidewalk.  I don't know what I expected to see.  It was very sad.  Years later I was able to fold that sadness into his music, but it took a long time.

A. A. Milne once said: "Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest a little boy and his Bear will always be playing."

That's how I'll always think of John.

You know that can't be bad.

I stopped playing music for a long time.  On my 50th birthday a few years ago, I decided to buy myself a present: a new guitar.  I'd only had one guitar since the 1960s, an old 3/4 Martin I'd found in a pawnshop in Nashville in 1971 for $50.  The head was broken off and put back on with a nail, and though I had the guitar repaired, the head fell off again and I gave up.

So it was my 50th birthday and I wanted a guitar.  After playing in music stores for a month, I chose an acoustic Martin.  The Dreadnought's mahogany body and rosewood fretboard are modeled after their 1940s guitars.  Its sound is warm and rich, while the trebles are clear and crisp, like bells; I was in Heaven.

Years passed.  Last February, my son Sean and I went to Mardi Gras, then met Laurie in Houston for her parents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration.  I'd already been in Houston the previous November (after attending the World Fantasy Convention in Austin) to visit relatives; and since the Martin 's neck had been mysteriously cracked a while back, I'd been pondering a new guitar.  I saw some I liked in Houston, but I didn't commit.  I'm really slow about commitment.

So, after the anniversary party (my second time in Houston in four months), I went back to the music store to play guitars.  I fell in love with a Taylor.  The rep Jimmy offered me a great discount and free shipping, and my new guitar was in Wilmington almost before I got home.

A year passed.  Last week, I realized I missed the Martin.  Since the guitar has a lifetime guarantee, I called the factory, but they told me they didn't fix guitars.  However, I found a promising local  repairman, and delivered the guitar to a music store; he had an arrangement with the owners and said he'd pick up the Martin soon.  After I handed off the guitar to a young girl working there, I wandered about the store, slowly gravitating to the music room, which is by tradition full of nice guitars, and is soundproofed, in case you scream with pleasure.

For an hour - completely ignoring my bus, which came and went - I picked up numerous styles of guitars and plucked away.  I finally settled on a stool with a twelve-string Taylor (twelve strings are impossible to keep tuned, so I never bought one) and a small but hearty amplifier (my Taylor is acoustic-electric, but I haven't owned an amp since the 1960s.)  Amazingly, the two pieces of equipment fit together, like a Spartan and a good fight.

The bus came by again.  It was snowing now, and I wanted to get home.  Finally coming to my senses, I bought a few guitar picks and some new strings and left, nodding to the girl as she promised once more to fix my Martin.

On the bus ride home, I realized I was going to buy the twelve-string and amplifier. 

But I guess you knew that already.

No milk today

While I was living in Houston, I attended a rambling but energetic lecture given by Ray Bradbury.  Ray had been visiting a friend of his in town and had agreed to speak at his friend's church.

Many of the people in the church were (quite naturally) church members, and weren't specifically there to see Ray, so after he signed a few things, he kicked back and I got to chat with the great man.  Ray had lots of L.A. anecdotes and shared them freely, as well as giving me a little writing advice (mostly, he said, 'Do the work.')  I also remember something he railed powerfully against: listening to the local news.  They're idiots, he said.  (I'm paraphrasing that.)

That was in the 1990s.  Today, there are no havens, no Cronkites (although I like Mark Helprin), and only small pools of sanity; idiocy has oozed into every facet of the media. 

I turned on the morning news and watched for five minutes.  It's a gut check, and it's always the same - some incredibly vapid, wrongheaded, or simply misleading segment.  This morning it was Britany Spear's latest meltdown.  I've never bought her music (or listened to it on purpose), or followed her exploits from channel-to-channel.  Still, I could hardly live in America and own a television and be oblivious to Britany's ongoing howl against the moon.  But listening to the commentators comment on actions reported by  paparazzi (levels on levels), I didn't switch the channel right away.  Nor did I feel smug, or want to mock her, or laugh at her frailties.  I just wanted to give her a hug.

I know, I'm pathetic.

Otter spotted!

Last Sunday, while walking along the Brandywine (just outside of downtown Wilmington), my wife and I noticed something in the water making its way determinedly upriver.  It was a North American river otter!  There are a pair in the Wilmington Zoo, but we've never spotted one in the wild.  It maneuvered around a couple of dozen Canadian geese and a small cluster of mallards and quickly swam out of our sight.  The wind was very cold and the water must have been even colder, and I imagine it was heading for home.  Pretty much what we did, too.

The otter appears often in Native American folklore.  Here are some stories from the Lakota and Seminole Indians.