Truth

We all have our obsessions. At least most of us do. An obsession-free life must certainly be a boring one. One of mine is verisimilitude in film making. Yeah, I know you’re probably tired of it by now. But just think.

How many times have you seen an actor empty a semi-automatic pistol only to have it go “click, click” after the clip is empty? It doesn’t do that. The slide just stays back, that’s all. No, it’s not dramatic from a photographic viewpoint. But that’s what it does.

We won’t get into World War Two scenes where every member of a rifle squad carries a Thompson sub-machine gun.

Oh, and guess now many bursts of full-automatic rifle fire you get with an M-16, or whatever they call them these days? Hint … it ain’t 15 or 20 like the movies would have you believe. Free historical fact: When the Russians designed the AK-47, they purposely made it cumbersome to shift to “full-automatic” so the untrained wouldn’t fire bursts, but would stick to single rounds. Oh, and despite what the producers would have you believe, the NVA regulars were excellent shots, much better, apparently, than the Empire Storm Troopers.

Watched the John Wayne classic, The Searchers the other day for maybe the millionth time. Great flick. Unarguably his best. The opening scene may form one of the best brief shots in cinematic history. But, you know what a fool I am for accuracy. I’ve never gotten over the image of a working cattle ranch in Monument Valley. Free historical fact two: The reason those cattle ranges in Texas are so huge is not the result of manly bravado. They developed from the fact that it takes a hundred acres of land to support a cow and calf in Texas.

While I’m at it, did anyone ever tell the screenwriters in the western genre how long a horse could carry a grown man before it required a meal?

Ever notice how most of the fathers in the golden era of studio movies averaged, maybe, 65 years of age? Couple that image with all of the pre-teen children and you get some additional respect for the “Greatest Generation.”

Stay tuned. Someday I’ll post my choices for bad casting choices. Hint, David Carradine as Woody Guthrie stands above them all like Mount Everest over a field of ant hills. Be thinking about your candidates.

They're gonna have pills
some day that do what?

Saturday Dreaming

 Saturday mornings I arise early and watch three hours of old Hopalong Cassidy films. Oh, I play them in the background and multitask. Still, one might wonder why such a dashing urbanite and intellectual would spend a morning a week while involved in such activities. Well … it relaxes me. It takes me back to more gentle times. Not a bad way to spend some time.

Hoppy respected the law, protected immigrants, supported our neighboring country, Mexico, and defended our Indian friends. He advised his “little pals” to respect police officers, obey their parents, and look both ways before moving. He makes me think of what America might have become.

Sometimes, though, it makes me think of ludicrous thing in movies. I’ve mentioned my favorite, so I won’t bring up the issue of semi-automatic pistols again. Oh heck, yes I will. They just don’t go “click click” when you fire the last shot. Everyone but scriptwriters knows that. Here are some more examples.

- Cowboys riding across deserts with no provisions for their horses or themselves.

- Cowboys, or stage coaches, galloping a horse(s) all day without food or rest.

- Raising cattle on a farm in Monument Valley.

- Never noting on Gunsmoke that Miss Kitty was a prostitute.

- Oh, and speaking of pistols, shooting and hitting someone with one at more than 20 feet.

- I won’t mention women’s hairdos that match the period at which the film was made.

- Indians riding horses with saddles under a blanket.

- There was the time that Hoppy got shot in the shoulder and then proceeded to whip the bad guy in an extended fistfight.

Oh. And the ludicrosity (Is that a word?) doesn’t end with westerns. How about the following?

- In Saving Private Ryan, a buck private refusing an order from an Army Ranger captain.

- War scenes in which everyone in a rifle company carries a sub-machine gun.

- Filming 1965’s Battle of the Bulge in the desert, sans snow.

- In the most dishonorable war movie in history, The Green Berets, John Wayne patting a young Vietnamese boy on the head while they watch the sun set to the east over the South China Sea.

- Clark Kent taking off his eyeglasses and nobody recognizing him as Superman.

- Oh, and hats that never fly off when people drive or ride in convertibles.

Then there is the matter of casting. How about David Carradine as Woody Guthrie in Bound for Glory? From all my reading and delving, Woody was sort of what Southerners call, “a little piss ant,” talented but small and feisty, far from how he was portrayed as “Kung Foo Woody.” And there was that cute and adorable little doll that played hard-nosed Mattie Ross in the regrettable Coen brothers remake of True Grit in 2010.

Okay, I’ll stop. I think there’s a neat film coming on that features Tom Cruise as adventure-novel hero Jack Reacher. Stay tuned.

Woody, not David

Day Off

Off today earning. Why do that? Since you asked, I don't know. I just can't say no. I enjoy the challenges. It gets me away from farm work. I get to hang with old friends. It makes me stay up with things. It exercises my mind.

Oh hell, I'm trumping you. I like the money. Guitars and cigars ain't free, you know. Trophy wives ain't neither. Neither is St. Jude, as they keep reminding me.

Tune in tomorrow. I'm working on a piece about the anniversary release of Easy Rider and how our perspectives change. It's guaranteed to make some of you mad, some of you tickled, and some of you say "What is an easy rider?"

Has your perspective ever changed? Mine has. Stay tuned. Be prepared to share.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 21 (Cont. _2)

We went out for a ride the next day, the Redhead and I. We took “Old Highway 70” out by Hill’s Lake where they had filmed scenes of White Lightening. This prompted her to direct me to a home not far away where they had filmed the final shootout in the action film Bloody Mama. It had featured legendary star Shelly Winters and an unknown aspirant no one had ever heard of named Robert De Niro.

The fake bullet holes were gone from the house. Spanish Moss still hung from the massive trees where they had replicated a Florida location. We marveled for a moment and moved on. It didn’t take much to impress us that day.

I drove slowly, and we talked, finding much common ground. As I mentioned earlier, we had had families with rural backgrounds. We were both un-enamored of organized religion, particularly the cult varieties. This led to the discovery that we had both read the James A. Michener classic Hawaii in the tenth grade, albeit six years apart. Further, the experience had left us both with a slight distaste for most missionaries.

We were what you would call “Blue-dog Democrats” and oriented toward liberal and progressive ideals. Her high school had been integrated. Mine hadn’t, although both the University of Arkansas (sort of) and the United States Navy (completely—cannon fodder has no color) had been during my stay. I had survived both experiences with neither scars nor embedded diseases.

It was a glorious day. She tied her hair back and we took the top off the sports car. Then we drove around more. They were beginning to plow the fields, and I could tell she loved the smell of freshly turned earth. In fact, she told me so.

I can remember parking at one particularly scenic spot and making out for few minutes like a couple of teenagers, although the Volkswagen didn’t offer a chance for much intimacy. Still, the experience made me shiver inside. I had carried a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine and couple of plastic cups in the trunk, so we toasted the day before leaving.

The house was still there.
Only the bullet holes were missing.

Have you ever heard, Dear Reader, of anything more romantic?

We got back to the apartment complex late in the afternoon. After replacing the car’s top, I took the remaining wine from the trunk of the car and invited her into my apartment for another drink. She smiled, cocked her head winningly, and said, “No.” With that she turned and went up the stairs. I stared at the ascent, wondering which of us she didn’t trust and whether nature had ever produced a more perfect body.

When I turned toward my apartment, my neighbor was outside hers, leaning against the door. She wore tight jeans and sandals and was leaning with an elbow against her front door frame. She had neglected both a bra and the top three buttons of a loose satin blouse. She grinned and said, “Well if it isn’t one-half of the top gossip story around the old apartment complex.”

“Don’t forget,” I said, “that you are the one who suggested it.”

“Yep,” she said. “Just keep listening to me and you might find your way to Heaven.” With that, she turned quickly, narrowly avoiding a revelatory accident, and went inside. I stood pondering what she had said and smiling.

The weekend had passed, though. I turned, unlocked my own apartment door, and went inside. Heaven would have to wait.

Hell was waiting for me the next morning. I just didn’t know it as I sat down to finish the Boone’s Farm.