Chasing the Blues

Mickey Rourke Wrestles his Demons

I'd planned to see "The Wrestler" on the theater big screen before the Academy Awards, but never made the commitment. Last week, Mickey Rourke's comeback film showed up on my "On Demand," and I quickly pressed the clicker to view it in the dark recesses of my own den.

First, I give the makers of the film credit for refusing a feel-good, happy ending. The ambiguous final scene, when Rourke's Randy the Ram refuses the future with Marisa Tomei's good-hearted stripper and leaps toward what we assume is his long-sought rendevous with that all-time champion wrestler the Grim Reaper, shows the stuff of classic tragedy.

Remembering the striking face of the young Rouke, watching his ruined visage gives the perverse pleasure of old-time horror movies. Perhaps a remake of Frankenstein could be his next move. He still has his physical dynamism and camera-loving grace. Tomei gives depth to one of the most cliched roles imaginable. I loved the humor, homoerotic bonhomie and deep respect for each other in the "wrestling community." In the end, I didn't think it a great movie, or worthy of the Oscar hype, but it was definitely a cut above the usual Hollywood fluff.

"The Wrestler" walks the same neighborhood as "Frozen River," with Melissa Leo occupying a similar career-reviving role that drew Oscar attention. Last year was when Hollywood gave its attention to gritty working class indie films. I liked Leo in the old "Homicide, A Life on the Streets" show, except for her annoying tic of exhaling "huh" frequently. She was the detective partner of whatever Baldwin brother played on the show, and she frequently smoldered in the chauvinist environment of the Baltimore detectives.

However, I found "Frozen River" grueling, almost unbearable. Leo's character, like Rourke's struggling to maintain a trailer-park existence, somehow lacked the grace and humor of Rourke's. Although some have found "The Wrestler" unwatchable, I thought the wrestlers, Rourke and Tomei displayed more likable personalities. The lives in "Frozen River" were too grim, too frozen. The movie tried to relieve the suffering with the type of sentimental feel-good ending that "The Wrestler" avoided, but I found it unconvincing.

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Atlanta Film Festival Revives City's Cultural Pulse

Sometimes, I glimpse an afterglow of Atlanta's long-fading promise. After the lukewarm Olympics experience, followed by repeated assaults from the anti-Atlanta Republicans who hold a death grip on Georgia politics, the city has veered off course from its once possible ambitions of greatness. Although people, for some reason, continue to move here, the city has atrophied, with too much traffic, the disappointing administration of Mayor Shirley Franklin (she cannot even fill potholes anymore), economic decline and atrophied cultural strivings. The Hawks and the Falcons have kept our sports scene vibrant, although the Braves are a shadow of their former premier selves.

However, last week's Atlanta Film Festival had the excitment and buzz that once filled the air. My sister, the producer Molly M. Mayeux, had a film in the festival, "Rain," and she and her partner, along with their dog, visited for the weekend. We went down to the Landmark Theater in Midtown Saturday and Sunday, and also snuck away to the Dogwood Festival at adjacent Piedmont Park, somehow escaping the dreaded car-wheel boot.

On Sunday afternoon, we viewed "Rain," basking in the residual glow of Molly's achievement. "Rain," an engrossing look at Bahamian culture, is an uplifting story with the classical narrative arc of repeated hardship and suffering, at last culiminating in redemption. It will show again Thursday evening at the Landmark. After the movie, we enjoyed a festive late afternoon dinner at Apres Diem. Outside on the patio, with clouds swirling and a brisk breeze that carried with it the excitement of creativity and big plans, we joined with Molly and Maria and assorted movie folk who love the indie world. It turns out the Southeast has a strong network of movie folk, stretching from Birmingham to Nashville (where Molly lives), Memphis and Atlanta. As we enjoyed the conversation and the buzz from surrounding tables, along with our fine repast, I found myself believing again in Atlanta's future. 

A Tradition Like No Other (Not the Masters, my blog!)

With the Masters, I mark the first anniversary of "Chasing the Blues." My musings on last year's Master's were one of the first posts on the blog, if not the first one. Now, writing this blog is a regular part of my life, and I've also launched "Southern Bookman," which has made its mark with several fine interviews of poets.

The Masters proved one of the best ones in years, as all commentators are saying. The drama of Phil-Tiger, the late shootout between Kenny Perry, Angel Cabrerra and Chad Campbell, and the subsequent playoff packed three different tournaments into one day. The sentimentality and nostalgia again flew as thickly as springtime pollen, but again I succumbed to all of it. 

A few parting shots: how many CEOs of bailed out banks and other financial institutions belong to Augusta National? I also wonder whether any lavish corporate junkets were held, such as have raised public ire in recent months, or whether the CEOs decided to tamp down such hijinks. Don't hold your breath waiting for CBS News to do an expose. The black eye network is tied in thickly with the barons of Augusta National. Every time I hear a good journalist like Vern Lundquist refer to the "patrons" I smirk to myself.

On another front, the one-stroke penalty assessed to Padraig Harrington when his ball was blown away by the wind after he had addressed his putt made me wonder if Tiger Woods would face such punishment in a similar situation, or whether the officials would just cough and determine that no, Tiger hadn't really addressed the ball. All of the hype over Tiger comes close to weakening the integrity of the game. And, I also wondered, since Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan were invited to play at Augusta National, whether Barack Obama would be. Democrats don't appear to get the opportunity. Obama playing at the old course would no doubt re-ignite the controversy over the lack of female members at August National, especially if Michelle wanted to come along. And does Augusta National still have a black member? 

It was good to hear the voice of Pat Summerall, if for nothing else than announcing corporate sponsors. I'd love to have Summerall back in the booth, over the obsequious Jim Nantz. And I'd love to have Ken Venturi back. Nick Faldo grows tiresome with his endless rememberances of how this shot or that putt won him the Masters back in the day.  

The Final Bore

"March Madness" and the "Final Four" is taking its place among the most overrated events in American culture. For years, I enjoyed the NCAA tournament, especially when my alma mater made a strong run, but now I find my interest waning.

The game's proportion has been skewed. It's a small court, with five men on a side, but now the finals are held in big football stadiums, like Ford Field. The game used to belong to the players, and the coaches, but now it's for the blabber-mouth bracketologists, a small army of so-called experts and pundits, endlessly jabbering on ESPN and sports radio.

Today, I found myself drawn into the ESPN special on the 1979 championship game between Michigan State and Indiana State, the famed battle between Michigan State's Magic Johnson and Indiana State's Larry Byrd. What struck me was how much better the game was, without the shot clock and the three-point line. The teams were able to set up their offenses, make passes, let each play develop. Now, with the shot clock, each play dissolves into disorganized chaos, with helter-skelter lunges after the ball, at last resulting in a shot at the basket. I know, the shot clock ended the boring four corners strategy that killed so many games. But in the old days, there were different kinds of teams, with different styles. A team like 16th seeded Princeton could almost beat 1-seeded Georgetown. Now, every game is pretty much the same. There's a bit of stategy, setting up the offense for one shot, then chaos. Perhaps more time should be added to the shot clock?

One thing good: the three point line was moved back, which brought back balance to the game. Now teams are not overemphasizing the three-point shot. The inside game has regained its proper place.

One thing good about this year's game, we didn't have to listen to Billy Packer's commentary. The 1979 game showed Packer at his best, when he was matched with Dick Enberg and Al McGuire. He was held in check by McGuire, and his commentary was on-target and relevant. Over the years, after he left McGuire behind and was the sole color man, he grew self-impressed and more and more off-target. Clark Kellog didn't really wow me, but at least I didn't have to suffer Packer irritation.