Review: A Man in Full

Haven’t been blogging much lately. Not a lot going on I suppose. The More Human Than Human Anthology (2017, Night Shade Books) which includes my WE, ROBOTS novella might get translated into Russian. Considering the world is going ape shit for AI, this little story of mine is right on time. Besides this possible windfall in rubles, not a lot moving me these days.

Imagine my surprise then, when the new Netflix flick, A MAN IN FULL, blew me away. Jeff Daniels as blowhard real estate mogul, Charlie Croker, really shines. Compare that to his DUMB AND DUMBER TO role. Same guy. Seriously? And Tom Pelphrey as mealy-mouthed Raymond Peepgrass is so icky to watch, you can’t look away.

Other standouts include Bill Camp as a vindictive bank exec and William Jackson as an ambitious Atlanta mayor. Loved watching both these guys in smaller roles. It’d be great to see what they would do on the screen together. Could they go after bad guys and save the world? Yes, they could. I’m not sure who would be the straight guy, though.

Sarah Jones plalyed a typical blonde trophy-wife, but she showed some spine, enriching what would normally be a standard stereotype.

There are no good guys in this film. Croker is the protagonist and Peepgrass the antagonist, but really, you don’t root for either one of them. They’re both unlikable. I assumed the filmmakers were creating a Trump parody, but I couldn’t tell which side of the divide they were on. Croker is loud, rude, and somewhat dim. But he showed his lovable side throughout as he urged his personal attorney (Aml Ameen) to fight the good fight for his secretary’s husband (Jon Michael Hill), rotting away in jail on a trumped up charge. To be honest that side story seemed a bit forced. We get you, filmmakers, you’re trying to show Croker’s softer side. His femininity. Right.

The filmmakers were not so kind to the Peepgrass character. This one-dimensional angry man appeared creepy more than anything else. No subtlety whatsoever. Not sure if that’s the director’s fault or the actor’s. Either way, no redeeming qualities here.

Fortunately there was Jackson and Camp to break up the all too familiarity. But there weren’t enough surprises and fun scenes. There was that one with Croker wrangling a diamondback. And later he was seen in a pet museum filled with live snakes. No actors were hurt in the making of this film, I assure you. I’m not sure what all that was about, but it was fun to watch.

The film is a kind of detective story. With only bad guys, who is going to win in the end? I was baffled throughout. And then came the end, redeeming the entire exercise. That is when I realized this was an allegorical story. These cardboard characters are standins for a moral, or life lesson.

Kudos to Netflix for bringing out this kind of film. The modern American audience is too dimwitted to recognize the subtlety, the subtext. I can’t thank the producers enough for giving us a film with a DEEPER MEANING.

It’s not until the final scene when you realize what this film is about. It’s not about Trump’s bumbling in real estate. Nor some sort of plot against him. It’s about the polemic. The divide. The way we have gone too far off the deep end with our unquestioning loyalty to a party of choice, a world-view. We’ve lost our Americanity. We can no longer see those who disagree with us as Americans. We hate them all. And it will kill us.

Make no mistake, our political process is under attack. We used to at least respect someone who was on the other side, even if you didn’t agree. Not so, anymore. Because of that, our process will surely fail as we sink into civil war. You and your intolerance will be to blame.

Who do you hate? I suggest you cross the aisle and shake hands with whoever they are. Or we’ll all end up on the bedroom floor in a tacky mansion, the life choked out of us. Metaphorically speaking. I hope.

Thank you, Netflix, for the allegory. I get it.

Review: Train to Busan

I posted this review a few years ago on the A PERFECT YOU blog and recently I came across it on my hard drive and decided to repost. Reading through it reminded me of how much fun this ridiculous-in-a-good-way film is.

Here it is with grammar and sentence structure improved (yay!)

Zombie Call

There was a time when I wouldn’t be caught dead watching a zombie flick. (Ha! Dead) Things have changed now, though. The cinematic wonder known as TRAIN TO BUSAN (2016) has come into my life. No idea how it got into my Netflix queue, but I’m glad it did. Have you seen it? You need to. It’s hilarious. It’s the most fun I’ve had since my next-door neighbors turned into blood-sucking vampires.

It’s a South Korean film directed by one Yeon Sang-ho. This is not just a horror movie. There’s a heart-felt father-daughter story going on. Rounding out the pathos is a pregnant lady and her gallant husband, and a crazy homeless guy who is repeatedly on the brink of being locked in the zombie car but is always saved at the last moment. The real draw, though, is the cast of extras of Demille proportion. And if there were an Academy Award for extras, these people would win it.

Here’s the zombie premise for this film: you get bit and a few moments later you are flinging your body around in a blind rage that defies both human anatomy and the immutable laws of physics. You are blind, but somehow perceive light. You are thrown off the train and land with your arms pulled out of their sockets. No matter, you carry on. You snarl and slather like a rabid dog. You have an uncontrollable desire to bite necks of non-zombies. You run in an ever-increasing nation of others like you.

There are scenes in this film that rival the state-room scene in the Marx Bros. “A Night at the Opera” for unabashed silliness. It just doesn’t seem like they could squeeze more people into the pile, but they do. And they’re all snarling and slathering away.  If they’re not worming a way into the pack, they’re jumping at, off of, or under, the moving train to get at a chunk of virgin flesh.

The extras are mostly young and athletic. They’d have to be to carry off the mix of St. Vitus’ Dance, Tourette’s Syndrome, and dance fever these zombies are afflicted with. It must have been a blast to make. There’s nothing more fun than overacting in foolish ways, especially if you’re young and sexually frustrated as the young often are. No better way to channel that pent-up energy  than in a high-budget Asian disaster flick. Fine job Yeon Sang-ho!

I now have an open mind about the zombie apocalypse. (Ha! Open mind) I’m on board (Ha! On board) with it. I get it.

Bring on the un-dead!

P.S. There’s a sequel called PENINSULA (2020). Go see it. Yeeha!

Blessed are the Cheesemakers*

The results are in and we have a winner: Norway’s Nidelven Bla . It comes to us from a little family farm about a few hundred kilometers from Trondheim, where the awards committee decides who in the world is the absolute cheesiest. It sounds fishy, but I’m quite sure the cheese is not. Nidelven Bla is a blue mold cheese with a firm, yet creamy texture, aged 11 months.

The cheese awards announcement fell into my inbox early yesterday morning. This was following a day of gluttony care of the cheese section at Wegman’s. It couldn’t have been more  fortuitous. I had picked up a six-month Manchego, gorgonzola picante, something called Cello Smoky Pepper Fontal, and an Instara P’tit from France. I’ve only tried the latter so far and I must say it is heavenly: buttery with a firm texture. I hadn’t picked up any of the listed award winners mostly because Wegman’s doesn’t carry any of them. Nor does any other place in the U.S.

Importers take note! You have an opportunity here.

The Gouda Cheese Shop in the Netherlands has an “Old Amsterdam” available. The Award site listed it as “Old Amsterdam Goat.” Gouda Cheese shop’s listing didn’t include “Goat” but there is a blue-ribbon next to the name, so I assume that’s the one. You can order this cheese if you like. They’ll export a five Euro wedge for a fee of 48 euros. At that cost, I’d consider just going to Holland. You’ll get more for your money.

Other winning cheeses exist in such places as Switzerland, Germany, Austria, Belgium. Nobody from N. America, France, the UK, or Latin America placed in the ten best list. Nor did Spain. No Manchego. What?

India placed. They have an interesting entry entitled Eleftheria Brunost. It’s a “Norwegian-style whey cheese,” tasting like “salted caramel milk fudge with brilliant lingering toffee notes.” I don’t know whether I should make a toasted cheese sandwich out of it, or ice a cupcake. Either way, I’m sure it’s fantastic. At 400 rupees a pop (5 bucks) I’d love to get some, but I don’t have a trip to Mumbai in my immediate future.

Importers take note! Opportunity abounds.

Gouda seems like a very flexible cheese. You can do so much with it. The Gouda Cheese shop has Lavender Gouda, Tri colour Gouda, Black lemon Gouda, Hot Chili Gouda, Herbs de Provence Gouda. What is it about Gouda that makes it so very experiment-friendly? I’ve got to get me some of these, they’re so colorful that even if I don’t like the cheeses, I can decorate the living room with them.

I didn’t have much luck with finding any of the other cheeses here in the U.S. But it was fun searching. There’s some great food out there and I want it all.

Importers: I’m begging you. Get on the cheese ball. Your public awaits.

–Sue Lange, author We, Robots (a scathing, sarcastic, funny account of the future)

*Apologies to Monty Python for stealing that line from LIFE OF BRIAN.

True Story…Sort of

Anyway, earlier this week I was sitting at my computer when a dog went barking by on the road outside.

It was one of those wonderful days, not too hot or cold, when people drive with their windows rolled down, and their dogs hang their heads out, just waiting to get clobbered by a passing stop sign.

I live on a road that is fairly busy twice a day. It connects two cities with dense but small populations. In the morning cars rush by going either west toward the battery plant, or eastward to the Amazon distribution center. Evenings the traffic pattern switches 180 degrees as everyone heads home.

This particular day the dog went barking by at around 1pm,  no doubt hanging its head out the window, ears pinned in the wind. It continued a string of barks unchanging in volume or duration, like a broken record, if you’re old enough to know what that means. The only variation was a change in pitch due to a small Doppler Effect as the car neared my home and then rushed by. It was like this:

… arf  arf  arf  arf arf arF aRF ARF ARF ARF ARf Arf arf arf  arf  arf  arf  arf …

You get the picture.

What the heck was  this dog barking at? The driver was totally ignoring the dog, his mind no doubt fixed on his flight toward the battery plant.

The incessant, unchanging barking intrigued me. It wasn’t like the dog was fending off intruders, or focusing on one single point of interest. It was just barking at the world.

I headed over to Google Translate to find out what it was all about. In the left menu I chose “the “Dog,” and “American Standard Human” in the right. Then I inserted the text of the dog’s speech. The part that I had heard anyway: arf, arf, arf,…

It translated roughly to this:

Oh my god! Would you look at that! Did you see that? It’s a frickin’ cat! Stop the car. Oh my god, there’s a dead deer in the road, right over…Holy shit, what’s that smell? Did you smell that? Oh my God! Stop the car! Stop the car! STOP. THE CAR. Thats the biggest pile of horse shit I’ve ever seen! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you smell that! Stop the frickin’…

That was what it was: the dog barking at the world. Like the first day of spring or something.

I imagined the dog at home later, talking with the cat.

Dog: Yeah, seriously. I nearly jumped out of the car. If I hadn’t done that last year and broken a femur I’d a been rolling in that stank. I just couldn’t believe Numb Nuts just kept driving. Like he didn’t even notice it.

Cat: Lame.

Dog: I kept telling him, Stop the frickin’ car. Nothing. Crickets.

Car: I hear you man. Guys got dry food for brains. Speaking of crickets. It’s getting late. I’m heading out. You want me to bring you back something? Chipmunk or baby robin, maybe?

Dog: Nah, man. Thanks. But if you think of it, when you get back in the morning, urp up something on Numb Nuts’ bed like you did last time. That was tasty.

Cat: I’ll see what I can do. Later, Man.

Dog: Later.

Anyway, I returned to my work and finished out the day a little more excited about the world.

–Sue Lange, author WE, ROBOTS

America’s Castles: Yes, they actually exist

Ceiling column in Fonthill Castle.

Europeans, of course, scoff. As do the Far Easterners with their Great Walls and Taj Mahals. The U.S. just can’t compete; we built our castles too late. Humanity had moved on from egotistical monarchs with unlimited power over the little people who in turn give their lives and backs in the service of their overlords.

The Industrial Revolution brought education for all and the little people soon developed a healthy cynicism. They started asking questions like “Why can’t I have some of that pie?” And so the pie was shared. Sort of. At any rate, gone were the despots of old that had the resources to build ostentatious architectural beasts. The U.S. was just getting started at that point.

But we work with what we have. Military surplus magnates, California wine barons, and others of that ilk fill in for old world tyrants bent on a legacy. They’re not as powerful as Louis XIV with his Versailles or Zhu Di with his Forbidden City. Those folks had access to untold numbers of expendable peasants. Vanderbilt types are required to pay their minions. And in modern times the laws no longer allow beating one’s workers into submission. It’s just too hard to get good help now.

Therefore American palaces impress, but not by old world standards. According to Wikipedia there are 150 in the U.S. The entry for Italy alone has about 500. To be fair, builders-of-things across the pond have been around longer so have had more time to erect their castles. The things that make the list in the U.S. are often scaled down versions from the old world which work well as B&Bs. Compare that to Europe’s big-assed accommodations.

Just the same, I’m proud of our castles. They are things of beauty. I recently visited Fonthill in Doylestown, PA. This massive house of cement was conceived and built by one Henry Mercer. Mercer made his money the old-fashioned way: he was born into it. Regardless, he worked hard in his tile factory and did well way beyond his inheritance.

Mercer tile on the floor of Pennsylvania’s capital building.

Mercer was inspired by the many trips he took to Europe and parts further east and the architecture and artwork he found there. He created what are known as Mercer tiles which adorn PA’s beautiful capital in Harrisburg. (Side note: Ever notice state capitals are in cities no one has ever heard of? Lansing, Michigan instead of Detroit; Albany, New York instead of NYC ; Pierre instead of Sturgis, South Dakota.) The Mercer tiles in Harrisburg are a stunning glazed red, with lovely pictures on some of them.

Fonthill Castle is almost entirely encased in Mercer tiles. The place is gaudy and fascinating, with amazing detailed work. I could definitely live there, but visitors get only an hour to go through the rooms which is not enough time. You’d need about 15 one-hour tours to see all that tile, let alone the nooks and crannies that lead to tiny bedrooms, nicely-stocked libraries and naturally lit studies. It’s like a fairy land or a Robin Hood movie. They do have certain times when you can go and lurk in corners without benefit of a tour guide but those times are rare.

Vaulted ceiling in Fonthill Castle: gaudy and fascinating.

Mercer may have inherited his money but he worked tirelessly with the energy of a monarch bent on legacy. Kudos to him for his work;  we are all beneficiaries of his creative genius.

Do stop by when you’re in the neighborhood. I hear his museum, about a mile away, is also a masterpiece; and there’s the working tile factory right next door if you can’t get enough in the mansion.

Detail of Fonthill tile.

Got stories of castles that you’ve visited? Did you stay overnight? See a ghost? Tell me about it.

— Sue Lange, author WE, ROBOTS

Fonthill Castle, Doylestown, PA

Surviving FB Withdrawal

I just escaped from Facebook. Deleted the account. In 30 days I will no longer exist in the FB world.

Am I brave or nuts? My existence is in jeopardy without FB, but I’ll do my best to eke out a presence with this here blog. I’ve got oodles of ideas. Mostly I’ll talk about the culture in my neighborhood, which at the present is Allentown, PA.

I only moved here a couple of years ago and am still exploring. I’m discovering great restaurants, musuems, and the zoo. I’m in Amish/Mennonite country which means picturesque landscapes, well-priced furniture, and horse poop on the road. Lots of great topics for posts.

I’ll also be hawking one of my books still in print, WE, ROBOTS, about the technological singularity. It’s a fun, surrealistic story about a little mobile AI unit.

At any rate, I intend to survive withdrawal from FB. I prefer reality for the most part anyway, but if I get the social media DTs, I’ve still got LinkedIn and Youtube. In the words of Gloria Gaynor, “I will survive.”

Review of THE INSULT

In this moment, this film — THE INSULT, out in 2018 and directed by one Ziad Doueiri — should be required viewing by every American. The culture of hate, currently brewing in this fair land, could easily turn us into Beirut, where a mere verbal insult can easily erupt into rioting in the streets. It’s not pretty. Watch the movie; you’ll see what I mean. And it’s where we’re headed if we don’t get a grip soon.

By “get a grip” I mean turn off CNN, Fox News, talk radio, and most of the Internet. If any of those sources is where you get your news, you are being victimized. Scammed the same way someone who wires money to Jamaica, hoping to win the sweepstakes, gets scammed.

To increase viewerships, those “news” sources play on fears and gullibility. On top of that, they know we’re dumb and lazy and so they have no incentive to research the truth or deliver to us two sides of a story. We’re not going to fact check them and we don’t want to hear it anyway. We’re so comfortable with what we already believe, we’ll listen to anybody telling us that “truth.” We don’t bother to question even the most ludicrous of stories. The Demorats are Satanists? Trump supporters are all low-IQ inbreds? Come on people, get a grip!

Because we all follow either the right or the left without question, we easily believe the most extreme of lies. We love them and we’re comfortable in our self-righteous hatred of the others. It feels good.

Yes, the media has the right to free speech — “freedom of the press.” They can say what they want. But since they have no moral backbone, no desire to do their due diligence, dig deep, or express truth rather than opinion, why do we pay attention to them?

Turn off your TV. Stop getting your news from the Internet.

I’m not asking you to visit the library to do your own research, just use your common sense when reports are ridiculous. Use your intelligence, not your emotional, knee-jerking, gut instinct. Don’t get mad; seek out truly unbiased reporters. You’ll be able to recognize them because they’re not screaming at you. They’re giving more than one side to a story. They are THINKING.

In the end we are all Americans. We all want to pay less taxes, avoid Herpes, buy something we don’t need and can’t afford. I know it’s hard to see all that common ground in a person whose god awful politics is so bass ackwards. The only smart thing to do with them is stone them. But try — even if it seems impossible — to see their humanity. If you can’t find one good thing to say about the opposition, you are a victim of the scammers. 

I suggest you get yourself to Netflix or Amazon, or wherever, and rent THE INSULT. That is where we’re all headed if we don’t stop the great media swindle.

Cancel your news subscription. Do it today! That is the road to salvation.

— Sue Lange, producer LE BON CHEF

Review: The French Dispatch

This is Wes Anderson at his best: artistic, silly, plotless for the most part. If you read The New Yorker or perhaps write for McSweeney’s you need to see this film. It’s a send-up of columnists, especially those of long ago who preferred paragraph-long sentences that shamelessly perambulated throughout the iconic folds of dictionary pages while secreting supercilious punctuation like a baseball player trudging through a Midwestern sleet while wearing cleats: it’s not necessary, but certainly worth a brag at a funereal after party.

The font face is divine. As are all the stars. At last count there were 513 Hollywood types doing cameos. There’s a new game coming out for those who like star spotting. Works like a word search only with actors names from the film.

It’s a delightful movie especially for Wes Anderson fans. If you don’t get Anderson, don’t go to this film. You will only get mad.

Before this film I had a mild crush on his films. After viewing The French Dispatch, I am now one of the legion of Wes Anderson fans. Can’t wait for the Criterion Collection.

— Sue Lange/producer LE BON CHEF

Why “The Room” is not Rocky Horror

Tommy Wiseau in THE ROOM. Drawing by Andrew Pochan.

It’s been twelve years since Rob Christopher over at Chicagoist first decided “The Room” would be the next Rocky Horror Picture show and I’m still not seeing it.

The rabid Rockheads heave a sigh of relief: the object of their worship has not been unseated. The rabid Roomheads, however, reply: “You just wait; Room hasn’t been around for 46 years like Rocky has.” 

Okay, I’ll wait. 

In the meantime, let’s compare and contrast. Rockheads call their movie a masterpiece. But is it? Take away the toast, the rice, and Tim Curry what are you left with? The plot at best is murky, at worst silly. The production values are poor. Except for Tim Curry, you could be describing The Room, so maybe…

Except there is one big difference: Rocky Horror has musical numbers. Musical numbers add a lot of cachet to a film. It can lead to people lip-syncing the entire film in the aisles for chrissake. In costume. 

Shadowcasting of Rocky Horror has a long history. That’s probably because the film is ultimately shadowcastable thanks to the musical numbers. Who doesn’t want to strut in fishnets to a finger-popping tune? Drag queens picked up the beat Downtown and it’s been spreading across the world ever since. And not just at midnight on Halloween anymore. The alternate Rocky Horror is performed all over, all the time. 

A quick review of the ‘net revealed one shadowcast performance of The Room somewhere in Florida. Why is that? I’ll tell you why: nobody wants to shadowcast a film with only a “You’re tearing me apart. Oh, hi Mark.” going for it. Rocky Horror has musical numbers. End of story.

Roomheads will tell you to just wait until 2050 when The Room will be just as popular. There will be just as much licensed junk out there. Just as many midnight showings with lip-synching, finger-popping drag queens. 

Maybe. If that happens, I’m sure Tim Curry will be rolling over in his grave. Probably me too.

— Sue Lange

Dust Nuggets: my latest project

Dust Nuggets is a feature film. Full-length. Yup, and I’m scared. Never did this before.

The film’s a mind-bender. Dreamscape. Surreal at times. Something you’ve never seen before for sure. Not frightening or hard to understand, just different. Aren’t you ready for something new?

We put together a test short when we were first trying to figure out what the film was about. You can see that on Youtube.

There’s more information about the film at our fundraising page.

What we need most of all right now are donations. Please consider helping.