ONCE UPON A TIME

Whose Hollywood fairy tales will come true at this year's Academy Awards?

You want Oscar predictions? How's this: when the Academy Awards are handed out this Sunday, winners in the top categories, excluding Actress nominees, will be white men.

Sure, some random female co-producers might swarm up in the production team accepting the Best Picture award. But (aside from Amy Pascal, solo producer of Little Women) you have to rappel down to the Screenplay categories before you even find another female nominee. And if not for this year's Korean phenom, Parasite, there would be few top nominees at all of any ethnicity other than Caucasian male.

(Just take a look at the posters for this year’s nine Best Picture nominees. Four feature only white men, two contain subordinate women alongside the men, and only two — Little Women (natch) and Marriage Story — feature women prominently. Only the Parasite poster bucks the trend, with three non-Caucasian men and two women — although one of the latter, appears to be, um, dead.)

Movies are being made from more diverse viewpoints — Us, Harriet, The Farewell, Hustlers, Waves — but the Academy has still hasn't gotten the memo. Can #OscarsSoWhiteMale be far off?

Of the movies that are anointed with Oscar nominations this year, the most hotly contested races are in the top two categories, Best Picture and Best Director. By contrast, all four acting winners are pretty much locked-in, after unanimous victories at all the other awards galas, so let's start with those.

SUPPORTING ACTRESS Laura Dern, Marriage Story. Dern has a lifetime of sterling film and TV credits, she plays a tough LA divorce lawyer (a character familiar to most Academy members), and is likely to score her first win with this, her third Oscar nomination.

SUPPORTING ACTOR Brad Pitt, Once Upon A Time . . . In Hollywood. Who doesn't want to see Pitt deliver another one of the droll acceptance speeches he's already given for this performance in this awards season?

BEST ACTRESS Renee Zellweger, Judy. Her gutsy performance is so close to the truth of Judy Garland's persona — wry wit, nervous mannerisms, and all — and Garland's effect on her fans, that we can forgive Zellweger doing her own singing. (Not bad, just not Judy.)

BEST ACTOR Joaquin Phoenix, Joker. He's already won everything else. It's chilling that Phoenix has tapped into some kind of grim cultural zeitgeist in this origin story of the pathetic failed comic fueled by psychosis to become the creepiest supervillain in the DC Comics universe. (Talk about art imitating life.) In a just, less traumatized world, the gold would go to Antonio Banderas in Pain And Glory, the performance of the year.

ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY Quentin Tarantino, Once Upon A Time     . . . In Hollywood. Of the four nominees also contending for Best Picture, Hollywood has the snappiest dialogue, coupled with a typically nervy Tarantino wish-fulfillment plot. But don't rule out Parasite, whose savage satire on wealth and class makes it the likeliest spoiler of the evening.

ADAPTED SCREENPLAY Greta Gerwig, Little Women. In this notably guy-oriented field (The Irishman, The Two Popes, Joker, Jojo Rabbit), the Academy might offer Gerwig an olive branch after failing to nominate her for Best Director.

BEST DIRECTOR/BEST PICTURE These two categories used to be joined at the hip. But there have been recent upsets, now that there are so many more nominated films (nine, this year, each of which Academy voters are required to rate in order of preference), diffusing the likelihood of a clear front-runner. There are still only five directing nominees, however, encouraging more focused voting. (That's how Alfonso Cuaron won for directing Roma, last year, but the affable Green Book got more likes for Best Picture.)

So. Narrowing down the movies to the five with nominated directors, Todd Phillips' Joker is perceived as more of an actor's showcase, Hollywood will pick up its awards in other categories, and Martin Scorsese's The Irishman has lost its pre-season buzz. That leaves Sam Mendes' visually daring WWI epic, 1917 (constructed to look like it was shot in one, long take), and the upstart Parasite.

All in the family: Parasite

  1917 is sure to win in the Best Cinematography category for veteran lensman Roger Deakins. Just as certainly, Parasite will clinch the prize for Best International (formerly Foreign Language) Feature. But here's my prediction for the main event:

BEST PICTURE 1917. BEST DIRECTOR Bong Joon Ho, Parasite.

(The 92nd Academy Awards will be broadcast live, Sunday, February 9, 5pm, on ABC. Tune in to find out just how wrong I can be!)

ART TO GO

Calling all art fans!

You my be surprised to see the name James Aschbacher among the dozens of artists showing at Pajaro Valley Arts’ annual Take Aways: Art to Go show, opening this week. But when the gallery folks called me to ask if I had any of his work left that fit the criteria — small pieces priced at $300 or less — that I’d be willing to part with, I said yes!

James loved the whole idea of Take Aways. It was designed for people who had spent all of the previous month buying gifts for others, and might want to self-gift  with some tasty little art item just for themselves. His work fit the bill, and he always made a few special pieces just for this show between the end of Open Studios in October and the year-end holidays.

I still have some of the last few pieces he made, and I am delighted that they are included in this year’s Take Aways exhibit. James made his work to be sold, to get their unique and joyful little spirits out into the world, and I am happy to spread the joy!

The exhibit opens Wednesday, January 22, and runs through March 8. Opening reception is Sunday, January 26, 2-4 pm.

(PS: This pic was taken at the 2018 Take Aways opening. A few of those paintings will be in the show, and I’m sure my Art Boy will be there in spirit!)

IT'S A WRAP: MOVIES of 2019

For whatever reason, I fell behind on my movie viewing in 2019. I missed a lot of the most lauded mainstream movies, and I'm still too cranky to settle for watching big movies that barely appear in theaters at all on a home screen.


However, among the often small, weird and/or esoteric movies I did see, I have a few favorites. I wasn't quite able to stretch my list into the traditional Top Ten, and I certainly can't claim that these were in any way the Best of 2019. But if you're looking for something to stream on a cold winter's night, here are a few suggestions!


(FUN FACT: Five out of my eight favorites were directed by women! Wouldn't it be nice to see any of them appear among this year's Oscar nominees when they're announced tomorrow? If only. . . )



PAIN AND GLORY Pedro Almodovar directs this wonderful, semi-autobiographical movie about a Spanish filmmaker, looking back on his own life and career, and the people and events that shaped and inspired him. It's my favorite movie of the year! It may not look like much plot-wise, but the experience of watching this movie unfold onscreen is rapturous. And star Antonio Banderas is riveting in every single frame — you can’t take your eyes off him!

 
YESTERDAY In Danny Boyle's audacious what-if movie, The Beatles have disappeared from the collective memory of everyone except a struggling singer-songwriter named Jack (an engaging Himesh Patel) who finds himself poised to plunder their entire song catalogue. Detractors complain the movie misunderstands what made the Beatles popular, claiming as false “meritocracy” the notion that the songwriting would be hugely successful on its own, separated from the context of the band’s individual personalities and their era.

But here's why I (still) believe in Yesterday: It's not that the songs themselves are supposed to be the best ever written (although you could certainly make a case for some of them), but that there are so many of them, in so many diverse styles, that Jack is able to produce on the spot. The movie creates its own context for Jack’s popularity, a modest young person of color who produces song after song after song, seemingly out of the blue. That’s how he captures the public imagination — in much the same way the working-class lads from industrial Liverpool did with their cheeky attitude and funny haircuts, once upon a time. Boyle turns it into a sly morality play about fame, honor, and sacrifice, with a 4/4 beat and a larky sense of fun.

HARRIET Maybe the times have finally caught up to the amazing life of Harriet Tubman, a real-life superhero who fought for justice and won major victories in her lifelong battle to end slavery in the American South. An escaped slave herself, she led many others to freedom in the North, via the Underground Railroad, armed with little more than raw courage, and a flintlock pistol. Filmmaker Kasi Lemmons explores the woman behind the historical footnote, played with bristly moral conviction by Cynthia Erivo.

SWORD OF TRUST An aging hipster confronts the dark heart of extreme Southern yahooism in Lynn Shelton's very funny culture-clash comedy. Marc Maron is all dry wit and scruffy sarcasm as a pawn shop owner tasked to sell a Civil War sword that supposedly "proves" the Confederacy won the war. The twisty little surprises of the plot are delicious to discover along the way, and the sharp, funny conversations (largely improvised) had me laughing out loud.

THE MUSTANG Director Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre spins a tale of wild horses, regret, and redemption set in a high-security prison complex out in the middle of the Nevada desert. As part of their rehab, certain inmates are chosen to break and train wild mustangs for auction, and Matthias Schoenaerts delivers a towering, if taciturn performance (it's all in his eyes) as a prisoner who learns tenderness by bonding with his animal.

RAISE HELL: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF MOLLY IVINS Unusual enough as a progressive in Texas, smart, savagely funny political journalist Molly Ivins stood six feet tall. Not gifted with conventional proportions, she felt entitled to hold outsized opinions expressed with outsized gusto. There's plenty to laugh at — and get riled up over — in this Janice Engel documentary, celebrating all the hell Ivins raised as a pioneering woman in a world and profession run by good ole boys. Through documentary footage, Ivins tells much of her own story in her own words, and it's the particular zing of her voice that makes this movie so irresistible.

WAVES This gripping domestic drama from Trey Edward Shults encompasses euphoria, tragedy, and every conceivable emotion in between depicting a middle-class black family in South Florida sliding in and out of crisis. Some incidents seem torn from screaming headlines, yet Shults humanizes everything with careful attention to the personal relationships that guide our lives — between parents and children, between siblings, and between couples, both young and long-established.

LITTLE WOMEN In her entertaining, feminist update of the beloved novel, filmmaker Greta Gerwig combines the adventures of Louisa May Alcott's fictional March sisters with the journey of Alcott herself in getting her story published. Through Alcott's surrogate, Jo (Saoirse Ronan, who is absolutely wonderful), Gerwig inserts the author's early writing career and her tribulations with her patronizing male publisher. Timothée Chalamet is coltish, handsome, and mischievous as Laurie, and if the elliptical time frame becomes confusing toward the end, the movie exudes exuberant and heartfelt goodwill, building to a satisfying girl-power crescendo that surely would have pleased Alcott herself.

MY LOST YEAR

"What's Next?" by James Aschbacher

When a year begins with a hospital stint in January, and concludes with your email getting hacked in December, there's more good riddance than auld lang syne in watching it stagger to the finish line.

2019 was like that for me.

My five days at Dominican, and the aftermath, spread over the next two weeks (grab bars in the shower, walkers, rollators, PT, etc), petty much wiped out all my good intentions for the new year. After losing that first month, I feel like I was never able to catch up.

Each new season took me by surprise. Celebrations and holidays raced by, barely blips on my internal radar. By the time it finally stopped raining, it was summer. The next thing I knew, Halloween decorations were going up. Christmas? Hah! Despite the mailing list of 100 recipients that Art Boy and I honed over the years, I didn't send out one single card. If he had a grave, my sweetie would be spinning in it. This is not the way he would have done things!

Where did the time go? Where did I go? I still have no idea. This has been my lost year.

Since I haven't racked up anything in the way of accomplishments to point to over the last 12 months, I have to start looking at the old year from a new perspective. Let's not think of it as slacking. Let's say instead that I've been incubating. Temporarily diverted out of the mainstream of life, I've been in a holding pattern, taking take stock of where I am. And, what's more important, with the new year looming — what comes next?

It's like I've spent 2019 wrapped up in a chrysalis, waiting to see who or what will emerge on the other side.

What's incubating inside that chrysalis?

I just hope the transformation comes soon, so I can leave this year's model behind. It distresses me that I'm starting to fulfill every cliche about widows. On my own, I schlep around the house in baggy comfort clothes. My table manners are deteriorating, with nobody sitting across from me to notice. I sleep with my cat.

It's clear that somebody has to take over the reins of this life, and, sadly, there's no one to do it but me, a daunting prospect without my co-pilot. Did I say co-pilot? Oh, please. James was not only the driver, he built the coach, groomed the horses, and paved the road. I was just the passenger. The idea of moving up into the driver's seat now, by myself, is one I greet with a resounding  gulp.

So I have to hope that whoever is incubating inside this chrysalis is up to the task. I can't let another whole year slip through my grasp while I sit on the sidelines, fretting. The past is prologue, as Shakespeare says in The Tempest, and I'm looking forward to the next act. It's got to be an improvement over the last one!

Let's hope I can get a grip in 2020. No more excuses!



(Above right: Little Love Bugs, by James Aschbacher)

SOUVENIR

Looky what I found clearing off some bookshelves the other day. Fat Freddy’s Cat was a spinoff from one of the most fabled underground comix of the ’70s, The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers.

Why am I hanging on to this relic of hippie nostalgia? It's a souvenir of the day I met my future.

One day in the spring of 1977, I walked into a comic book store with a couple of friends and a stack of silk-screened posters we’d made for the recent Spring Fair. I didn’t know from comics, but we wanted to sell our leftover posters on consignment, and the recently-opened Atlantis Fantasyworld had posters on its walls.

I can’t remember what came of that transaction; my friend, the comic collector, was handling the business end of the deal with one of the owners, Joe. But I didn’t want to look like a deadbeat, so I wandered around the shop and picked up this copy of Fat Freddy’s Cat, which I bought from the other owner — Jim.

She sells silk screens at the Spring Fair

We chatted for a few minutes over my big purchase, and that was the end of that — or so I thought.

Little did I know that a couple of months later, the Star Wars juggernaut was about to hit Santa Cruz. My publisher at Good Times told me if I could find a photo, he’d run my review as a cover story.

(Back then, GT was only 12 pages long, so a cover story meant the text of the review was actually printed on the cover! Not buried on page 6 with the ads for The Broken Egg, Cymbaline’s and The Good Fruit Company.)

The photo was the catch. It’s not like we could just dial up iMDB. (This was long before computers were invented; we were practically chiseling the paper onto slate tablets, like The Flintstones.) But I had seen some movie stills on the wall at — you guessed it — Atlantis Fantasyworld.

Comics convert: me & my future

Joe was off at lunch the day I went back. But Jim was happy to stop filing comics for a few minutes to help me out. There was no one else in the store. We talked for an hour.

I never did get that still. (Turns out the only ones he had on the wall were from vintage ’50s monster movies.)

But I did get my cover story — my counterpart at the Sentinel took pity on a newbie and gave me one of his Star Wars stills — which gave me another excuse to visit Atlantis for another chat, the day the story was published, and then — well, you get the idea!

So when I happened upon Fat Freddy’s Cat, the discovery was bittersweet — but mostly sweet.

I notice it’s Book #1, and practically in mint condition (except for some fading on the spine), as it’s been mostly untouched by human hands all these yeas. I wonder if it’s worth anything — I’d have to ask Joe.

But it’s priceless to me.

HIS REIGN IN SPAIN

Banderas and Almodovar, team up for rapturous memoir, Pain And Glory

In Pain And Glory, Antonio Banderas plays a famous Spanish director working on a new film project. "Is it a comedy or a tragedy?" someone asks him. Banderas gazes back. "I don't know," he replies, with thoughtful sincerity.

You might as well ask the same question about life, and get the same answer — at least, life as portrayed in all its tenderness, irony, disappointments, and absurdity in this wonderful new movie from Pedro Almodovar. As the filmmaker onscreen looks back on his own life and work in this semi-autobiographical story, so does Almodovar, behind the camera, examine the people and events that shaped and inspired him as a creative artist — and as a human being.

Of course, a filmmaker tells a story about a filmmaker, and you think Fellini and 81/2. But Pain and Glory is less about what sparks artistic imagination than about the ways we find to get through life, day by day. Almodovar offers very little action, but plenty of talk and lingering close-ups, resonant with feeling.

It may not look like much, plot-wise, but the experience of watching this movie unfold onscreen is rapturous.

Etxiandia and Banderas: mellowed animosity

Bandera's stars as Salvador Mallow, a Spanish filmmaker with an international reputation. His most famous movie is being honored on the 30th anniversary of its release, and Salvador is invited to speak at a special screening in Madrid, along with the film's star, Alberto Cresco (Asier Etxeandia).

When Salvador visits Alberto to discuss it, he gets a cool reception, having publicly denounced Alberto's performance back in the day, but time has mellowed their animosity (if not Salvador's opinion), and they decide to do the appearance.

But time has been less benevolent to Salvador in other ways. His body is in decline from a variety of chronic ailments (laid out for the viewer in a series of jazzy graphics of human anatomy, spinal formation, blood vessels, and neuro pathways), to the point that he's in more constant pain than his daily cocktail of painkillers can relieve.

Cruz: salt of the earth

Something he's not yet tried is Alberto's favorite painkiller — heroin — and the few moments of pain-free bliss it provides quickly adds addiction to Salvador's list of maladies.

But this isn't a movie about drugs. Salvador's heroin reveries are another excuse for flashbacks to Salvador's childhood in the countryside with the salt-of-the-earth mother he adored, Jacinta (Penelope Cruz, marvelous, as always). Stoic and subdued by pain for so long that he's been unable to work, Salvador's memories finally uncork his creative drive and he starts writing again.


When Alberto finds and performs a monologue Salvador has written about his youth, an old flame (possibly the love of his life), Federico (Leonardo Sbaraglia), arrives on his doorstep for a brief, bittersweet reunion. And there are some lovely scenes of the elderly Jacinta (longtime Almodovar stalwart Julieta Serrano), living in Salvador's posh flat toward the end of her life, gently confessing to her devoted son her disappointment over some of the choices he's made.

At the heart of it all is Antonio Banderas, whose best movies as a young actor were his Spanish-language collaborations with Almodovar, his mentor, before Hollywood tried to typecast him as a conventional "Latin lover." Reunited with Almodovar in the excellent The Skin I Live In in 2011, Banderas is riveting in every frame of Pain and Glory, not by doing anything showy or actorish, but in his profound and wistful quiet.

Whether he's making a sly, impish remark, or expressing in his eyes alone all that's left unsaid with his former lover or his aging mother, this movie belongs to Banderas. You can't take your eyes off him.

Comedy or tragedy? You can't possibly know from one day to the next while you're living it, Almodovar suggests. At least he has the grace — not to mention the nerve — to keep exploring the question.

JIMMY'S PILLOW

"Kitty Alarm Clock," by James Aschbacher

It traveled West across the Rockies like the pioneers.

Along with two cats, one girlfriend, his collection of classical music albums, and a few plaid flannel shirts, James arrived in Santa Cruz from his Midwestern roots with perhaps his most prized possession stashed in the back of his Ford Econoline van: his pillow. He he’d had it so long, he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t have it. Certainly it dated back to his childhood as little Jimmy in Wilmette, Illinois.

By the time I came into his life, the beloved pillow had already worn through the original outer shell of fabric. We had to keep reinforcing it with several generations of zip-on covers to go under the pillow cases. There was nothing left to cover but a fluffy rectangle of naked cotton batting, slightly stained with age, and with a head-shaped depression in the middle.

But he loved that pillow. For years he would not travel anywhere overnight without it. Hotel pillows were guaranteed to be stuffed with sand in comparison. And musty guest pillows dragged out of the hall closet at his mom’s house? (Or mine?) Oh, please.

Hotel pillows just weren't the same.
But this Bern hotel had a Paul Klee print!

It was one thing to toss it in the back of the van (or the trunk, in subsequent vehicles) if we were driving somewhere, but for years he also managed to squish it into our luggage if we had to fly. This did nothing to protect its crumbling infrastructure, but he was always so relived to have that little piece of comfortable familiarity to cling to in a strange bed. (Well, besides me.)

It probably wasn’t until airports starting charging fees to check your baggage — and it proved impossible to stuff the thing into a standard carry-on bag, and still have room for, like, clothes — that he finally, with extreme reluctance, agreed to leave the pillow at home.

I still make up the bed every week with his pillow, and its mismatched partner, along with my two pillows. I tried banishing his to the (so-called) guest room closet, but the bed just seems too flat and empty without them. Besides, Bella the Cat likes to take a midday nap in that hollowed-out spot when it’s not sunny enough for her to go out on the deck. Pillow-snuggling used to be verboten to the kitties, since James was so allergic, but there have been a few changes around here since then.

On the night I came home from the ICU for the last time, I fell asleep with Bella snuggled up against my rib cage, as we had done for the previous two nights. When I woke up in the middle of the night, she wasn’t there. I saw that she had gone over to go curl up on his pillow, kind of a last goodbye.

Now there’s a new chapter in the lengthy saga of Jimmy’s Pillow. Lately, I’ve been using it as a kind of bolster between my knees in bed at night; it helps me relax if my leg is doing one of those internally buzzy MS nerve things. I have to admit, it’s a great comfort to curl up around its saggy familiarity.

Now I get it.

DRESS TO EXPRESS

Don’t put away that costume trunk yet, just because Halloween is over!

Suppose you were asked to dress up as your favorite literary character. Would you choose your actual favorite character? Or would you choose the one with the coolest outfit?

Alice or the Mad Hatter? Harry Potter or Bellatrix LeStrange? Fitz or the Fool?

You’ll get your chance to choose next week, when Bookshop Santa Cruz hosts A Literary Masquerade in honor of visiting author Erin Morgenstern. Highly acclaimed (and justly so) for her enchanting debut novel, The Night Circus, a few years ago, Morgenstern is coming to town with her brand new novel, The Starless Sea.

The BSC event page (featuring starred reviews from Publisher's Weekly, Kirkus, Booklist . . . well, you get the idea) calls the new book “a timeless love story set in a secret underground world—a place of pirates, painters, lovers, liars, and ships that sail upon a starless sea.”

I am so there! No, I haven’t read the new book yet, but I adored The Night Circus beyond all reason.

Among many other aspects, I loved Morgenstern’s canny use of Tarot cards to enhance the story. (You know how I feel about Tarot cards!)  When I found out she had designed her own set, based on fanciful images from her book, I was delighted; even more so when she generously granted me permission to post a couple of them on my blog when I posted my review. 

The BSC event unfolds next Tuesday, November 12, at the DNA Comedy Lab (formerly the Riverfront Cinema, 155 S. River Street, downtown Santa Cruz). Festivities begin at 6 pm, with the Masquerade, for which participants are invited to dress up to express their favorite literary character, for dancing, refreshments, and other activities. 

At 7 pm, Morgenstern will take the stage in conversation with Michael Chemers, Professor of Dramatic Literature in the Department of Theater Arts at UC Santa Cruz. Admission is $37, which includes a copy of The Starless Sea, a number for the book-signing line, an unassigned seat for the book talk, and access to all activities. Visit the BSC website for tickets and other info.

Why are you still sitting there? Get to work on that costume!

REALLY TRUE GRIT

American anti-slavery heroine gets her due in Harriet

She didn't wear spandex tights or bullet-repelling bracelets. But Harriet Tubman was a real-life superhero in every sense, fighting for justice and winning major victories against impossible odds in her lifelong battle to end slavery in the American South.

An escaped slave herself, she made many perilous trips back below the Mason-Dixon Line to lead other enslaved people to freedom in the North, via the Underground Railroad, armed with little more than raw courage, relentless determination, and the occasional flintlock pistol.

Although her name has become a footnote in American History books, it seems incredible that such an inspirational story has never been made into a movie — until now. In Harriet, filmmaker Kasi Lemmons (Eve's Bayou; Talk To Me) examines the woman behind the footnote, exploring the outrage, grit, and fervor that shaped her, in a tribute that feels long overdue.

Maybe now that we're all so woke, the times have finally caught up to the amazing life of Harriet Tubman.

Erivo as Harriet: Perilous crossing

The story, co-written by Lemmons and Gregory Allen Howard, begins in 1849 with the slave woman, Minty (Cynthia Erivo), who lives with her parents and siblings on the Ross family farm in Maryland.

After their master tears up their legal petition to free the family in honor of his late mother's will, Minty prays for his death, overheard by the master's odious son, Gideon (Joe Alwyn). When he plans to sell her off, she runs away; pursued by men and dogs and nearly drowned, she makes it all the way to Philadelphia.

There, she's taken in by William Still (Leslie Odom Jr.), a dapper abolitionist, and Marie (Janelle Monáe), who runs a refuge for single women and finds her paid employment working in a hotel. Marie teaches Minty to shoot a pistol. William encourages her to give up her slave name; she chooses her mother's given name with the surname of the husband she's had to leave behind — Harriet Tubman.

Erivo and Odom: Conductors

Her new friends are horrified when Harriet risks recapture to return south and bring back her family. But once she's made the journey a couple of times, bringing out strangers as well as family, William introduces her to the Undeground Railroad, a covert network of operators and vehicles by which runaway slaves are spirited north to freedom — of which the fearless Harriet becomes one of the most intrepid "conductors."

Ervio as Tubman: Reel life

Erivo plays Harriet with bristly moral conviction; it's unthinkable to sit idly by, protecting her own freedom, when others are still enslaved.

The real-life Tubman was prone to seizures, which she claimed were visions from God guiding her on her journeys, and which Lemmons recreates in sepia glimpses.

These, along with the fact that she never loses one of her "passengers"— despite fierce pursuit — adds to her mythos among slaves, abolitionists, and slaveowners.

Harriet Tubman; Real life

Evocative music also plays a key role. Spirituals underline the slaves' fervent faith in a better life ahead, but when sung by slaves in the field, they also allow them to communicate with each other in a kind of code, under the overseer's notice. Many are delivered with wistful, calibrated emotion by Erivo, a Tony-winning musical theater actress.

Erivo also sings the powerful anthem, "Stand Up," over the closing credits, a song she wrote with Joshuah Campbell that sends the viewer off on a stirring note.

And a brief glimpse of foot-stompin' revival music in the slaves' little church on the farm is delivered by a boisterous Vondie Curtis-Hall as the preacher. If my grandfather, the Methodist minister, had held services like that, maybe I would have become a churchgoer.

Lemmons' melodramatic flourishes can be overdone. Gideon is written as dastardly, insinuating evil incarnate, without any shading, and the orchestral soundtrack tends to swell and crest to emphasize emotion. But Harriet's story is so important, it rises in triumph over all obstacles — like the woman herself.

GOURD VIBRATIONS

Happy Pumpkin Day to all!

James Aschbacher loved Halloween. I could say it brought out the kid in him, but the kid in him was always out! He wasn’t into dressing up himself, but he loved to see little trick-or-treaters in costumes.

We would put together a deli tray of salami, cheese, olives and baguette (and champagne, of course!), and graze standing up at the kitchen counter between trips to answer the doorbell.

And as a lifelong monster-movie fan, he loved all the faux-scary stuff that came with the celebration. We made window displays with skeletons, his Universal Monster movie figurines, and my Barbies. (Bride of Frankenstein Barbie; Headless Barbie; Invisible Woman.)

But best of all, he loved carving pumpkins, a ritual shared with friends Jim and Gail Borkowski for years. Of course, normal jack-o-lanterns were never good enough for us. I love the violin motif on Jim B’s tall pumpkin, here. (Look at those “ears!”) And, since the year was 1989, my Art Boy produced “Quake-Head!” He must have employed toothpicks — very carefully — to fasten the two ruptured halves back together at that angle. Always the innovator! 

Virgo that I am, I also felt compelled to document our pumpkins in a sketchbook/journal for future reference. The shelf-life of a hollowed-out gourd is notoriously short, so the day after Halloween, we’d set them out in the back yard, to watch them slowly melt back into Nature!

It was all part of the same ritual — act of creation, brief blaze of glory, then return to the Earth to start the cycle anew.

It’s very sad for me to face my second Halloween without him. His enthusiasm was so contagious! Last year I went to my friends’ house for the evening, rather than face the night alone. (Just me and the ghost of my Sweetie, his overwhelming absence occupying the house like The Blob.)

Tonight, I’ll be at home, but no decorations in the window, and no candy at the door. I hate to be that curmudgeony old lady who turns off the lights, locks the door, and hunkers down at the back of the house until it’s all over.

It feels like such a betrayal of James; as my Spirit Guide, he would be so disappointed.

But not only do I not have the benefit of his delight to cheer me on, I am no longer physically able to keep schlepping back and forth to the door to hand out goodies to the kids.

And rattling to the door hunched over my walker might scare even the most stalwart trick-or-treater.

(Although, maybe if I dressed up like Quasimodo . . . )

POWER HOUSES

Edison vs. Westinghouse to electrify America in atmospheric The Current War

No, it's not about the latest international outrage launched by our so-called administration. But The Current War, concerns a subject every bit as cutthroat and high-stakes as any recent shenanigans out of DC: the clash of Titans Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse as they race against time and each other to bring the magic of electrical power to America.

The movie is powered by a few Titans of its own. Benedict Cumberbatch stars a Edison (another brusque, eccentric genius in the Sherlock/Alan Turing mode). Michael Shannon plays Westinghouse, peeking out over a formidable handlebar moustache (the era is around the turn of the last century).

Nicholas Hoult pops up as Nikola Tesla, the unsung hero of the conflict, and Matthew MacFadyen (the smoldering Mr. Darcy in Pride And Prejudice, once upon a time) plays J. P. Morgan, the fickle financier for whose funding the others compete.

The subject may be electricity, but director Alfonso Gomez-Rejon doesn't go in for a lot of flash and dazzle. His focus is on the hard work and endless trial-and-error that goes into producing a miracle like the electric light bulb — and its unexpected uses and sometimes grim consequences — and the dueling egos and private agendas of the miracle-workers who make it happen.

Gomez-Rejon and scriptwriter Michael Mitnick rely on effective storytelling, interesting characterizations, and period opulence to give the movie its charge.

The First Jedi? Hoult as Tesla powers up the World's Fair

 And pay attention to Chung-hoon Chung's often stunning cinematography and canny use of split-screen and other techniques, which remind us what the movie only hints at in its later scenes — that perhaps Edison's most enduring legacy is as a pioneer of the motion picture.
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NATURE CALLING

When you talk about earthquakes — as we all seem to be today, the 30th anniversary of the Loma Prieta Quake of 1989 —  it's all about the downside. Buildings crumble and tumble. Objects plunge to the floor.

But when the dust settles (literally), there might be an unexpected upside — although it may not be so obvious at the time. That's what we found, anyway.

It was Indian Summer, October 17, 1989, hot and still — what we've since come to think of as "earthquake weather." In those pre-Art Boy days, when James was still just Jim, he worked downtown at Atlantis Fantasyworld, the comic book store he owned with Joe Ferrara. I was at home, at the keyboard in my office upstairs; it was just after 5 o'clock, and I was thinking about going down to turn on the World Series (Oakland As at Giants) when I felt the first shake.

Now, my room rattles if a UPS truck goes by, but this time, it was swaying like a hammock. All the books, toys, photo albums, and other miscellaneous stuff cluttering up my workspace jumped off their shelves. Then the shelves jumped off after them, wrenching their brackets right out of the walls. It was like The Sorcerers' Apprentice, all those inanimate objects suddenly flying around the room, all landing in a massive heap on the floor.

They claim the first 7.0 shaker only lasted 30 seconds, but it felt like forever, and the aftershocks were coming so fast it was like one continuous rhumba. After picking my way down the shivering staircase, I tried calling Jim at work, but, of course, the phone was dead. Ditto the TV, so I dug out an old battery-powered radio and tuned into KSCO, which would become the lifeline of the county over the next few days. Neighbors outside were calling for their kids and going door-to-door to make sure everyone was okay. My most immediate worry was where my cats had disappeared to.

Around the house, more piles of books and tcotchkes littered the floors, as if swept aside by a petulant hand. Paintings were knocked askew on the walls and cabinet doors yawned open. A substantial Art Deco hutch crowned with a four-foot slab of marble that weighs a ton had taken a little stroll about six inches away from the wall. There was plaster dust all over, some broken glass, and cracks in the drywall, but nothing a broom or a putty knife couldn't fix.

Downtown was a different story. According to the radio, Pacific Avenue was buried under a giant mushroom cloud of red brick dust. Atlantis was on Lower Pacific, south of Laurel, but since there was nothing I could do without more information, I channeled my alarm into sorting out the home front. Sheena, the cat who'd been known to play chicken with a jackhammer for the thrill, was seriously freaked, but she came over the back fence when I called.

But my older cat, Maynard, was nowhere to be found. When they passed out bravery, Maynard was off somewhere taking a nap, so I knew he'd run for cover at the first quiver. I worried he might have fled upstairs in all the commotion and been trapped under the wreckage, but to my great relief I didn't find him flattened like a cat rug when I sifted through the debris.

But by 7 pm, Jim was still not home, and new reports were coming in of downtown engulfed in flames.  I had no way of knowing which buildings were charred rubble and which (if any) had survived. I tried to assure myself that I'd feel a cataclysmic disturbance in the Force if anything  dire had happened to him.

When I finally heard his car in the driveway, I raced outside, Sheena at my feet (make that under my feet). He had been trying to get home for two hours. First, his keys had been buried under an avalanche of comic books. Then he found the car had been so jolted by the rippling street that the door was stuck; he had to pound and kick to get it open. On the road at last, he found that the Murray Street Bridge between Seabright and 7th Avenue was closed, and all traffic to Live Oak rerouted to Soquel Avenue.

With everybody in town trying to get out the same way, and no working streetlights, traffic was barely crawling. Also barely crawling was Maynard, who came tottering down the hallway from his hiding place, deep in the closet, behind my shoes, at the sound of our voices, indignant, but unhurt.
 
One house downtown had indeed burst into flames from a ruptured gas pipe, but Jim said the choking cloud over Pacific Avenue was from the collapsed buildings. As dark and thick as smoke, it looked like the entire town was in flames. He'd driven home expecting to find our neighborhood in ruins. But we were lucky — all we lost were things.

Downtown bore the worst of it: buildings, businesses, and lives were lost. It took decades to rebuild, a process that still goes on. I believe there is still an empty lot behind a chain link fence where Atlantis once stood.

No, the building didn't collapse in the quake; only the back end crumbled a little. Jim and Joe sold comics out in front the next day — by  hand, out of a cash drawer — since everybody was suddenly off work and school and thronging downtown. But when their building was red-tagged, they had to move all their inventory into one of the notorious tents going up in the parking lots along Cedar Street to temporarily house local businesses. It was a long, laborious process. The community rallied to support the merchants' tent city throughout the holiday season, but rebuilding downtown took a long time.

But  here's that unexpected upside: When Jim and Joe had to move Atlantis to yet another tent the next year, Jim was at a crossroads. He could slog through another move, with the prospect of moving the business at least one more time after that into a permanent space. Or, he could sell his half of the business to Joe and dare to follow the siren song of his insistent new muse — art.

He was just about to turn 40. Guess which one he chose?

Of course, when you think of all the devastation perpetrated against the planet by humankind over the generations, who can blame Mother Nature for giving us a good whack upside the head once in awhile? But sometimes out of the rubble, a surprising phoenix might arise.

FITZ OF FURY

FitzChivalry Farseer is fighting mad. Bastard grandson to the old king, and apprenticed in his youth to the court assassin, he now finds himself separated by his dangerous trade from the woman he loves and the child he will never know. His mentor, Verity, the King-in-Waiting (and uncle by blood) is possibly dead on a desperate quest of his own, and Fitz, can only watch as their kingdom is ravaged by ferocious Sea Raiders after being abandoned by the usurper king, Prince Regal.

In Assassin’s Quest, the final installment of Robin Hobb’s Farseer Trilogy, Fitz has only one goal left in his shattered life — to find and kill the contemptible Regal, who has destroyed Fitz's own life, before Regal's negligence and conniving can destroy the entire realm.

From the opening sequence of Fitz reluctantly detaching himself from the freedom and relative simplicity of life as a wolf, courtesy of his link to his bond animal, Nighteyes, to the arduous journey through the mountains, always trying to stay one step ahead of Regal's thugs (not always successfully) in search of Verity, who calls irresistibly to Fitz through telepathy called The Skill, this page-turner sucks you in like the vortex of a tornado.

Fitz and Nighteyes' companions include an ancient woman who seems to know a lot about The Skill, an often troublesome minstrel who tags along determined to fashion a heroic ballad from Fitz's adventures that will make her fortune, and Verity's intrepid bride, Queen Kettricken of the mountain kingdom. Diverse as they are, they strive to work together as a unit. Or as Nighteyes exults, "We are pack!"

Also along for the ride is the latest iteration of the oft-evolving Fool; not quite as "colorless" as before, but just as sharp-tongued, enigmatic, insightful and compassionate. Referred to by some as a White Prophet, the Fool was the first to nickname Fitz as "Catalyst" (to Fitz's great annoyance), while Nighteyes sometimes calls him "Changer."

One of Fitz's few pleasures (but just one of many for the reader) is the immediate and easygoing alliance that develops between his two closest friends, Fool and Nighteyes. The wolf calls Fool "the Scentless One."

This only highlights intriguing questions hinted at about the Fool's age, origin, species (perhaps not exactly human) and gender. Which, having already read the next trilogy in Hobb's ouevre, The Liveship Traders, opens up to me a whole new raft of possibilities around one of the principal characters in those books.

Hobb is an Equal Opportunity storyteller: Guards, warriors, Skillmasters, armorers, artisans, all are as likely to be female as male. Hobb herself is a master weaver, embroidering rich details into her massive and complex tapestry — each trilogy from a different point of reference and a different region, but all part of the same engrossing world.

Hobb Fan Alert:  25 years after the release of Assassin's Apprentice, all three books in the Farseer Trilogy have just come out in matching hardcover editions — illustrated, yet! Launch date was October 1st. In stores as we speak!

These are the three Anniversary Edition covers. Pretty cool huh? Click here to see what Hobb has to say about it!

LAUGHTER BURN

Outrage, scathing wit, fuel irresistible Raise Hell: The Life And Times Of Molly Ivins

She was an Amazon among puny mortals. As if she wasn't already unusual enough as a progressive in Texas, the smart, savagely funny political journalist Molly Ivins also stood six feet tall. Not gifted with conventional proportions, she felt entitled to hold outsized opinions expressed with outsized gusto.

The zenith of her popularity came as a syndicated columnist in some 400 US newspapers during the era of George W. Bush (she called him "Shrub") —giving her plenty of fodder for her trademark blend of savvy political insight and stinging humor.

As Ivins herself once said about American politics: "You can laugh, you can cry, or you can throw up. Crying and throwing up's bad for you, so you might as well laugh." There's plenty to laugh at — and get riled up over — in Janice Engel's documentary, Raise Hell: The Life and Times of Molly Ivins. Ivins succumbed to breast cancer in 2007, at age 62, but Engel's film celebrates all the ways Ivins raised hell in her own life as a pioneering woman in a world and profession run by good ole boys.

Through documentary footage and interviews, Engel allows Ivins to tell much of her own story in her own words. When back-up is called for, Engels solicits commentary from folks like Rachel Maddow, and political columnist Jim Hightower, but it's the particular zing of Ivins' own voice that makes this movie so irresistible.
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WEDDED BLITZ

Joys, pitfalls of marriage explored in Actors' Theatre's splendid Company

The new Actors' Theatre production of the Stephen Sondheim musical, Company, advertises itself with the symbol for Wi-Fi superimposed over an image of the New York City skyline, under one of the song lyrics from the show: "You haven't got one good reason to be alone."

This adds an extra thematic dimension to Sondheim's story of a 35-year-old bachelor harassed by his married friends to take the plunge into the joys of matrimony — and all the baggage that comes with it.

Originally produced in 1970, the show is cleverly updated to the digital age by director Andrew Ceglio, who ponders the very notion of connection — like, with another actual person — in this selfie era, when every private experience is recorded, Instagrammed and Shared.

That's the subtext, with characters whipping out their phones at every turn to snap pics of each other or play back their messages, while life marches on around them. But Ceglio and his crew also score points the old-fashioned way in this splendid production, with a strong cast of singing actors, and a minimalist, almost non-existent set (by MarNae Taylor), that gives them all plenty of room to move, sing, and kick up their heels — even at the famously tiny Center Stage.

Runaway Bride — Melissa Harrison steals the show

Bobby Marchessault provides a solid center as bachelor Robert, who may or may not be learning from his friends' mistakes. Lori Rivera delivers a thunderous rendition of the martini-soaked power ballad, "The Ladies Who Lunch."

But Melissa Harrison steals the show as a bride-to-be getting spectacularly cold feet on he wedding day, tearing into Sondheim's complicated comic tongue-twister, "(I Am Not) Getting Married Today," with hilarious brio.
(Read more in this week’s Good Times)

SATURATED FITZ

Coming of age finds FitzChivalry Farseer increasingly drenched in two glamorous and dangerous forms of magic.

As the trajectory of his story continues in Royal Assassin, Robin Hobb's second installment of the Farseer Trilogy (after Assassin's Apprentice), Fitz, bastard son of the old king, must learn to manage the gifts he's inherited (legitimately, or not) from his royal Farseer bloodline.

Through The Wit, publicly condemned as "Beast magic," he is so attuned to animals, he can share their thoughts, feelings, pain, and adventures.

Far more sophisticated, and potentially more treacherous is The Skill, a sort of Vulcan mind meld (but no physical contact required) by which a Skillmaster can enter the minds of friends and foes alike, flinging powerful support to allies in danger, or confusing the minds and distorting the actions of enemies.

Having failed Skill training as a youth, Fitz's powers are random and unpredictable — but increasingly potent.

The character of the mysterious Fool grows more intriguing here, as his friendship with Fitz deepens — and his cryptic prophecies become more pointed.

But the key relationship in this book is Fitz's bond with Nighteyes, a wild wolf pup he rescues from the cage of an unsavory animal vendor.

The perils of The Wit — that the human soul might be tempted to untether itself and be literally carried away by its wild bond animal — is explored from every possible angle and leads to a gripping, literally death-defying finale that will have you racing for the finish line — even as your inner reader screams that she doesn't want the book to end yet!

Like any junkie, the minute I finished this book, I groped immediately for the next injection — oops, installment — to find out what happens next. It does not disappoint.

Btw, just because I'm coming so late to this series doesn't mean that zillions of others have not already fully embraced Hobb's fabulous books. Here is one of the more interesting alternative covers I found online.

I don't know where it comes from; there was no attribution, and my knowledge of the Slavic-seeming title (Polish? Czech?) is, well, nonexistent. Anybody recognize it? But one thing seems certain: Hobb's  popularity is global!

COMEDY OF MANORS

Upbeat approach in lavish, gorgeous Downton Abbey movie

No one knows Downton Abbey better than Julian Fellowes, creator and longtime scriptwriter for the insanely popular PBS television series — unless you count the untold gazillions of rabid fans who embraced the show during its five years on the air.

As a token of thanks, Fellowes treats his fans like royalty in the movie adaptation of Downton Abbey. We're invited to join the King and Queen of England on a visit to Downton, an event of such epic pomp and ceremony, it takes a big screen to contain it all.

The faithful will adore every juicy frame of the Crawley family's cinematic adventure — the subtle rustling of every beaded gown (the year is 1927); every fashionably bobbed and waved hairdo; every pointed remark between beloved characters, both upstairs and downstairs. And beneath the narrative focus on the royals' impending visit, the busy subplots are devoted to catching up with as many familiar characters as possible.

Admit it: you watch for the clothes!

But there's also just enough storyline skipping along the movie's glittery surface to entertain the uninitiated, propelling things to a satisfying conclusion (or two), stylishly done.

Scripted by Fellowes for director Michael Engler, another Downton veteran, the movie takes a more lighthearted approach to storytelling, without so much of the angst that can be developed in the episodic TV format over time.

Maggie Smith, of course, is Fellowes' secret weapon. As Dowager Countess Violet Crawley, acerbic clan matriarch, she makes an elegant feast out of every syllable he feeds her, and while the writing is impeccable, as always, it needs Smith's imperious, pitch-perfect delivery to steal every scene she's in.

The darker complexities of all the characters' relationships can only be hinted at here, but at least Fellowes and company provide two hours of easy entertainment, with plenty to look at along the way. (Seriously, Anna Robbins' costumes alone will keep you enthralled!)
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SPY vs SPY

As irony would have it, this week marks the 18th anniversary of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. This was the pretext the George W. Bush administration claimed for launching the U.S. war on Iraq — a pretext that soon proved to be completely erroneous.

The dogged US insistence that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction that put lives at risk, globally, was the only tenuous thread by which the invasion of Iraq might be legitimized on the world stage. Of course, no WMDs were ever discovered, but by then, one of the most devastating and entirely illegal wars in which U.S. troops (among many others) have ever bled and died was well underway.

All of which provides background for Official Secrets. There's nothing slick or flashy about Gavin Hood's tightly constructed and efficient suspense drama. Less a conventional thriller than what you might call an investigative procedural, it zeroes in on a few intrepid individuals facing tough moral choices when they begin to uncover the campaign of misinformation and manipulation the U.S. is using to sell the war.

Smith as reporter Martin Bright: back when the truth mattered

The movie tells the true story of Katharine Gun, an unassuming translator with Britain's information-gathering GCHQ (Government Communications Headquarters), whose decision to leak a sensitive memo to the press got her hauled up on charges of violating the Official Secrets Act in September, 2003.

Katharine is played with stoic determination by Keira Knightley. Although fearful of the consequences, she's so outraged at how the public is being misled in the rush to war, she stands by her actions and her principles all the way to the Queen's Bench.


Ralph Fiennes is terrific, as usual, as Katharine's lawyer, Ben Emmerson, an expert in human rights and international law. Other familiar faces doing a stand-up job are Matt Smith as Martin Bright, the reporter for The Observer who broke the story, Conleth Hill (Lord Varys from Game Of Thrones), unrecognizable as Bright’s  feisty, foul-mouthed newspaper editor, and Jack Farthing (the odious villain in Poldark) as Katharine's chipper cubicle-mate at GCHQ.

In a way, the movie almost makes one nostalgic for the Bush era, when the revelation of such bald-faced lying and corruption still had the power to incite outrage and moral courage.

Those were the days.
(Read more in this week's Good Times)

UP UP AND AWAY

You don’t see an A-List steampunk movie too often. (And sometimes you shouldn’t: The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen, anyone?)

But check this out: The Aeronauts, with Eddie Redmayne and Felicity Jones as mid-Victorian hot air balloonists!

He’s a meteorologist, she’s a balloon expert, and they boldly go where few have gone before (mainly up) with a cargo of gadgets to study the weather.

Maybe not room for a lot of action or plot twists in such confined quarters, but hey, that’s what I thought going into Gravity! This one looks like great, clockwork fun to me!

Here’s the caveat: When the promo says “Inspired by a True Adventure,” (don’t they all?), in this case it means everything IS true — this expedition actually occurred — except for the woman aeronaut played by Jones. She’s as imaginary a character as Harvey.

Redmayne’s meteorologist is a historical figure, but his real-life partner in this enterprise was pioneering male aeronaut Henry Coxwell, who saved the day, the craft, and their lives when things took a dire turn.

Revisionist or not, all could be forgiven if the movie proves to be as ripping a yarn as this trailer suggests. Director Tom Harper’s last movie, Wild Rose, had its moments.

We’ll find out in December! Stay tuned . . .