Good-bye, Terry Pratchett.

One of the authors of one of my favorite novels has passed, and I am actually pretty unsatisfied with that. He wrote more than 70 books, but I would be ashamed if I said that was enough for me. He was an endlessly imaginative, genuinely witty, distinctively humane writer.  He will be missed.

I think "The Collector" is required watching.

I'd never even heard of this movie, which is probably ridiculous, and everyone else already knows about it. I only caught it today on some antenna-based movie station, which probably had it as a "horror" genre film in line with the coming Halloween holiday--which falls short of its meaning. But this tense, well-acted, psychological thriller starring Terence Stamp ("Kneel before Zod!) and Samantha Eggar actually is a brutal story about a Nice Guy who kidnaps a woman and basically works through so many dynamics of misogyny and abuse that it is practically a handbook of what fucks woman-blaming Manboys be.

This might not be a movie for everyone. It represents a stalker and kidnapper who has isolated a target and cut her off from everything, controlling her behavior--not always through violence, but sometimes through manipulation and even seeming pleasant at times. Such a stalker! He buys art books, makes tea, buys toiletries! He provides a place for his victim to stay and proclaims he's a gentleman and pretends he's above violence, but the drama between his need to control and her desire to be free is tense and real.

The title comes from his hobby of collecting butterflies. There is a deep scene where he shows his victim his collection, and she comes to the realization that she has been collected, like a thing to be had, dead, just like they are.

I'm not going to give away all that unfolds, but it is grim and sad and still and all, compelling and revealing. I'll admit I was rooting for a way for a happy ending to somehow come out of it.

Spoiler alert--no, watch the movie. The movie and the novel, by John Fowles, are available at Amazon. And probably elsewhere if you skulk about more than I did.

Joan Rivers, You Tremendous Tramp.

She wasn't perfect and even said horrible things, terrible things, things that could even get you kicked off of television in some eras (that she lived through), but the thing of it is, she survived and already earned a lot of respect. Let's be honest, some of the dumb shit she said that other people would find objectionable could have been said by Don Rickles or Jackie Mason, and who would care?

I liked Joan Rivers for her potty-mouthed self. She wasn't full of shit. She said what she thought. Her face was an amazing thing. I admired her weird agelessness. She didn't seem to be striving for youth--just not looking old. If I look at today's fashion, her ongepotchket jewelry collection has made today's statement necklaces look reasonable.

I loved Heidi Abromowitz. You know--the tramp stereotype in Joan Rivers' hands got played out to where she was saying "Wouldn't you?" The best joke I got from her re: Heidi, was that being told you looked like a tramp was wonderful--because who could sell themselves, an ugly yenta? No. To be a successful tramp was to be a beautiful thing. She tried at being that beautiful, and feminine, and vicious. You (a woman) could marry being feminine and joking. You could be mean. You could talk--because can we talk?

Can we talk about Joan Rivers, as a pioneer, and somehow divorce her life from later ugly comments, that were not her at her greatest? Because she started in theater kissing Barbra Streisand and like me, she loved dogs and a good steak. She was an 81 year old person when she died, and maybe her face didn't say "Grandma"--but she was the kind of grandma  you might have forgiven her sometimes bullshit attitudes to respect the blazing trail she made for others.

Rest in power, comedy Queen. You were tacky and loud at times, but you were a survivor. And your act might have warmed up for a lot of others once, but is hard to follow, now.

A little spark of madness...

It's very sad news to hear that Robin William's spark is extinguished. I've been a fan since Mork told Richie Cunningham he was "humdrum". Comedy is a function of observation and empathy--Robin Williams as an actor and comedian was a fountain of creativity and energy and made humor out of anything at all. There's something about the chaotic invention Williams was capable of--best seen in his stand-up act--that let you know that at his best, he was all perception and feeling.

And possibly also at his worst. It's a funny gift--perception. It cuts both ways, and if his humor and the joy he could produce were products of it, depression was its shadow. Humor is a fuckfinger at fate. It's our primate survival instinct longing to fling poo at the Reaper playing keepsies with our marbles and always winning. We joke about shit that scares us, and at the base of many a joke, there's a little darkness: the black behind the mirror we hold up to capture what we see.

He was a touching old soul as an actor and a fierce thing on the comedy stage. I'm not much for weepies like Patch Adams or whatever, and I guess I missed him in Disney's Aladdin because I miss a lot of Disney. But Moscow on the Hudson and The Birdcage were movies that I could pretty much always watch again. His turn in The World According to Garp outdid the material (Hi, my pseudonym is Vixen, I'm a literature major, and I do not care for John Irving--A Prayer for Owen Meany was the most pointless shit I ever read next to Jonathan Livingston Seagull. If you ever wanted to admit that yourself-go on. Your welcome.)

As a person though? You know, I think I grieve for dead comedians because there's something like a confessional about their art. It provides so many snap-shots of their minds in motion that even if you don't know a person, you feel like "I've seen his act--I know him." But one of the things I really associate Williams with is giving. His art was also about generosity of spirit. I always think of his work with Comic Relief USA and the USO, and the countless little things for Make a Wish, and all these other worthy causes. His generosity of spirit was real.

Depression is a serious disease. When the rope, the bottle, the razor, look like a life raft out of the constant hell one's mind is producing, humor flies out the window, and the brightest light has a shade drawn. What a noble mind was here o'erthrown! If you've an idea what it's like, you don't ask how he could have done it, you are grateful he held on to produce the work he had and mourn with his family and friends because it's all you can do. It's a very sad thing.

John Pinette-RIP.

I don't even know where to begin--I loved John Pinette and his act so much. He was a kind and self-deprecating comedian whose co-optation of other dialects was always respectful. He was a big man with a great heart. I will miss this guy so much. I listened to his stuff over and over.

Harold Ramis, RIP

I think you probably know Egon Spengler was my favorite Ghostbuster. Basically, if I was to reference any of the really awesome comedic films that impacted my formative years and sense of humor today, well, Harold Ramis was a part of them or influenced the people that made them. That is an awesome legacy.  Ramis was an awesome talent who wasn't just funny himself, he made other people funny and made some careers. And damn funny movies. His influence was felt in subversive sarcasm and tables turning on middling bourgois status quo to suggest the status was more FUBAR. And his humor was nasty sometimes but never mean. If that makes sense. He was one of a kind.

James Gandolfini, Dead at age 51

I'm fairly shocked at the sudden death of Gandolfini, best known for his role as Tony Soprano in HBO's award-winning series The Sopranos. As an actor, Gandolfini had a great talent for conveying the inner motivations of the characters he portrayed--a kind of presence where the viewer could imagine wheels turning, perceiving the complexity of the characters through the nuances and gestures his "read" lent them. This was probably best shown through the six seasons of his run on The Sopranos, where his Tony Soprano was a character of almost Shakespearean depth--in some ways amoral, and others, too aware of the unrighteousness of his criminal enterprise, a character as conflicted as a mafioso Hamlet. To make viewers sympathize with Tony, a monster who becomes aware of himself, took an actor who could make the horrible all-too-human. But I would be remiss if I didn't mention that one of my favorite movies that he was in was The Last Castle, which, if you haven't seen it, by all means, do. His Col. Winter is another character that is difficult to like (and you shouldn't, he's a weak man). But Gandolfini made him compelling to watch.


It's a damn shame--he died far too soon.