Monthly Archives: December 2008

Herewith, Dave Barry’s year in review:

Shortly thereafter McCain stuns the world, and possibly himself, by selecting Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin, a no-nonsense hockey mom with roughly 114 children named after random nouns such as “Hamper.””

“On the Republican side, John McCain emerges as the front-runner when Mitt Romney drops out of the race, citing “motherboard issues.”

In the presidential debates, John McCain, looking and sounding increasingly like the late Walter Brennan, cites Joe the Plumber a record 847 times while charging that Obama’s tax policies amount to socialism. Obama, ahead of McCain by double digits in the polls and several hundred million dollars in money, skips the debates so he can work on his inaugural address. The New York Times declares his performance “masterful.”

“Barack Obama, in a historic triumph, becomes the nation’s first black president since the second season of 24, setting off an ecstatically joyful and boisterous all-night celebration that at times threatens to spill out of The New York Times newsroom.”

The economic news is also gloomy for the U.S. automotive industry, where General Motors, in a legally questionable move aimed at boosting its sagging car sales, comes out with a new model called “The Chevrolet Toyota.”

Pacific Ocean Poo

Thank you, Matos, for expressing what I thought in July when I heard Dennis Wilson’s rightfully withheld masterpiece. I’ll only add that: (a) nobody in the late seventies sounded this addled and lachrymose unless you were Leif Garrett, and, on certain cuts, that’s the kind of standard Wilson achieves; (b) if you’re going to essay studio-rock, please be sure your singing and arranging are up to the standards of the genre and the players you hire.

When I saw the trailer for Doubt, I smacked my lips: it looked like an (un)holy combination of Agnes of God meets Notes From a Scandal, a mix of religio-mystic hokum and melodrama. Sad to say, Doubt was a lot worse. This farrago, adapted by and from John Patrick Shanley’s play, lacks the basic mechanics of filmmaking to bring off Shanley’s wisps of ideas. His idea of “opening up” his play is to visually dramatize a parable that Philip Seymour Hoffman tells (it involves the feathers from an opened pillowcase flying in the wind, of course). Ambiguities that might have teased onstage look like cop-outs on screen: is Hoffman a pedophile? Is the student gay? What are Amy Adams’ motivations? Shanley’s inspiration for this turgidly paced nonsense seems anachronistic: the manner in which he develops his ideas could have come from some 1950’s conception of “provocative” subject matter (think Picnic, with William Holden in a wimple). Only Viola Davis comes closest to presenting something human and terrible onscreen, but if Shanley wanted real fireworks – real tragedy – why did he bury Davis’ revelations in the middle of the movie instead of moving it to the beginning, where they would have forced the audience to reckon with them over the next ninety minutes? A similar eye-opener of a fact about Streep’s personal life is mentioned once, an aside almost, and it changes not a bit of our understanding of her. Stephanie Zacharek: “Have no earthly idea what point Shanley is trying to make? It’s all good — you’re just having Doubt.”