Happy birthday to one of the true heavyweights of stage and screen – Peter O’Toole turns 78 today.  O’Toole is not only an exceptional actor, he’s also a true “star” in a way we rarely see anymore. He may have been riffing on Errol Flynn in his brilliant performance in My Favorite Year, but it was clear there was more than a little of himself in Alan Swann too.

O’Toole’s sometimes boozy, seemingly always cheerful, outsized personality and his talk show appearances are as legendary as his performances (remember him riding a camel onto the stage for David Letterman?). Nominated 8 times for the Best Actor Oscar, he’s never won, but did accept an honorary Academy Award for his body of work (which he initially refused). Here’s a snippet from one of those nominated performances, as movie director Eli Cross in Richard Rush’s 1980 film The Stunt Man:

Since attempting to watch Lawrence of Arabia at work seems like a bad idea, and its too early to raise a pint to the old Irishman, why not mark the occasion by reading Gay Talese’s terrific 1963 Esquire profile of O’Toole.

O'Toole and Richard Burton in Becket (1964)

Happy birthday, Peter. Let’s hope we see you up on the silver screen again soon.

Guilty Pleasure Movie Week

Take one cast full of megastars with numerous memorable roles already in their respective portfolios, add in a few great character actors, embellish with the adrenalin, in-your-face, highly-stylized mayhem of producer Jerry Bruckheimer, mix liberally with the talents of a first-time movie director whose resume had most recently included Budweiser commercials with dancing ants, and what do you get? Only one of the biggest hits of 1997, the critically-panned but commercially-successful “Con Air“.

Con Air tells the story of Cameron Poe* (Nicolas Cage, working with Bruckheimer for the second straight movie after the similarly-styled “The Rock“).  Poe is a former U.S. Army Ranger, so you know he has all sorts of combat training (and, it turns out, one poorly executed supposedly Southern accent by Cage).  He arrives home after fighting in Desert Storm and being honorably discharged from the military. However, on the night he returns, he is assaulted by three drunkards while escorting his pregnant wife (Monica Potter) home from the bar where she was waiting for him (Note to wife: second-hand smoke isn’t good for you or your unborn child, and if your hubby is coming home from the war, is the bar really the nicest place you can think to meet him?).

* "Cameron Poe" anagrams to such phrases as "poor menace",
"peace moron" and "No rape! Come!".  Strangely, all of these
seem to fit the character at various stages of the movie.

Poe defends her by using his special ops skills, and subsequently kills one of his attackers. On advice from his attorney, he pleads guilty to first-degree manslaughter, expecting leniency from the court due to his military service. However, the judge sentences Poe to 7–10 years in a maximum-security Federal penitentiary, because his special ops training makes him a deadly weapon.  Uh yeah, OK . . . but no way would that have happened had that character been played by Steven Seagal.  Anyway, I would have paid to see Poe inflict his training on his lawyer afterwards.

Poe keeps his nose clean in jail and ends up getting paroled eight years later.  He is to be flown back on the “Jailbird,” a C-123 airplane, along with several other prisoners that are being transferred to a new super-duper-maximum security prison.

Now here I must admit a bit of a bias in my choice for a guilty pleasure movie, as my current employer at one time did in fact fly inmates upstate.  And I can tell you beyond a reasonable doubt that no parolee would EVER get released this way.  But let’s not let that detract from the story, shall we?

Meanwhile, DEA agent Duncan Malloy (Colm Meaney, playing against his usual mild-mannered type from the “Star Trek: The Next Generation” TV series) approaches U.S. Marshal in charge of the transfer, Vince Larkin (the always enjoyable John Cusack), and requests he slip an undercover agent on board to coax information out of a drug lord during the flight. Larkin reluctantly agrees on the condition the agent doesn’t carry a weapon, but Malloy manages to slip a gun to the agent before boarding.  (Silly DEA agent!  Don’t you know guns, mean convicts and pressurized aircraft don’t mix?)

Wouldn’t you know it . . . shortly after takeoff, the prisoners launch what turns out to have been a carefully-planned and scripted coup led by Cyrus “The Virus” Grissom (John Malkovich, in a restrained, cool, and understatedly convincing role) and overpower the guards, taking control of the plane; when the DEA agent tries to take control of the situation by brandishing his now-not-sneaked-on-anymore gun, he is quickly killed by Grissom. Poe opts to keep his “secretly a good guy just trying to get home to his ‘hummingbird'” identity quiet (yes, that’s Poe’s pet name for his wife . . . hummingbird) and cooperates with Grissom, who promises all prisoners that they will be flown to a non-extradition country thanks to the drug overlord, if they help out.

The plane lands as scheduled to make prisoner transfers; Grissom and his crew pose as guards and take advantage of a dust storm to make sure the transfer appears to go smoothly, acquiring reinforcements such as a pilot known as Swamp Thing (veteran character actor M.C. Gainey) and Garland Greene (a droll Hannibal Lecter-like psychopath with a keen sense of humor, played by a scene-stealing Steve Buscemi).

Meanwhile, Joe “Pinball” Parker (played by a then-unknown David (not Dave) Chappelle) sneaks the Jailbird’s original transponder onto a private tour plane, leading the authorities astray. Although Poe secretly manages to get word out on the hijacking, it is too late to stop the plane from taking off.

(more…)

Wait, it’s Monday isn’t it? Dag, I’s still feelin’ lazy.

I’ll never get that cornmeal made.

Happy Summer Friday.

In the Summer…

In the City…

In the summer…

Stay cool and drink plenty of fluids.

Interior with a Violin, By Henri Matisse (1917-8)

This record always struck me as a kid. I don’t know, it had a pleasantly depressed vibe about it.

Next week’s theme is a good one: Guilty Pleasure Movies. We had some internal discussion about the definition of a guilty pleasure movie, and as usual in such cases, Emma hit the nail on the head:

“To me, they are movies that you enjoy but CAN’T really defend. A guilty pleasure is a movie that you would NOT have in your DVD collection. I don’t own Deep Blue Sea and wouldn’t buy it. But whenever it’s on TV, I watch-even though I must’ve seen it about four times by now, which is three and a half more viewings than it deserves.”

The general consensus was that the movie has to be bad in order to qualify, but that doesn’t really matter to me. A movie can be well-made and still be a guilty pleasure for me. Like Boogie Nights or Rushmore or True Romance, Sleepless in Seattle, even, those are guilty pleasures for me because overall I really don’t like the filmmakers and enjoy not liking them. So to admit that I can actually watch something by them and even enjoy it, that’s guilt, Dog.

Or self-loathing, or something warped like that. And has nothing to do with the artistic quality of the filmmaking, because like them or not, PT Anderson, Wes Anderson, Quentin Tarantino, are skilled and talented guys.

But if I had to pick a scrubby movie as a guilty pleasure–resisting like all hell not to choose something starring Chris Makepeace–I think this one will do just fine.

Should be a fun week. Let’s all have a laugh, shall we?

The New York Times presents a Peaches Navigator.

Thank you.

I’ve been playing golf for so long I couldn’t quit the game if I tried, I don’t remember not knowing how to swing a club. It’s something my father and I share to this day. Perhaps my daughter will see me hit golf balls or watch Paula Creamer on TV and get excited about the game like I did when I was her age. Golf is an escape, a source of sanity and competition all at the same time. It’s that way for the group of guys I play with every weekend; one guy in particular, Don. On Sunday evening, July 18th, we lost him.

I got the call the following morning. We all expected the news. When we played thee weeks ago at Lido, another member of our group saw Don’s cousin who told him the end was near. Don battled cancer for about a year-and-a-half.

He was 46. Made a mint trading oil stocks. Had a history of substance abuse in his younger days but while he still maintained some vices (smoking, the occasional drunken evening), he’d kicked the drugs. His only junkie-level activity for the length of time I knew him was golf.

And he was a junky golfer. Slow as shit, three practice swings prior to every shot, with a swing that looked like a cross between Kenny Perry and Al Czervik from “Caddyshack.” I don’t know how he hit the ball, but he was effective in his own way. He was an 18 handicap that could shoot 85, kick your ass and take your money.

He was one of the guys who welcomed me into that group that regularly shows up at Lido well before dawn to get into the first few groups, regardless of the time of year. Don was that way with everyone, though.

Three years ago, he went on a golfing trip to Scotland. Unsolicited, he brought back souvenir ball markers from Gleneagles for me and several other guys in the group. Earlier that year, again unsolicited, he did the same thing following a business trip to Chicago where he played at Butler National, which used to host the Western Open, except the gift was a sleeve of golf balls with the Butler National logo emblazoned on the side.

The best gift, though, sits near the putting/chipping green adjacent to the 18th green and 1st and 10th tees at Lido: a wooden bench. Engraved on the bench are the names of the guys in our early-morning outfit. It reads “The Posse” at the top center, and then our names in a cool cursive font underneath. We all wanted to chip in and help contribute to the bench, but Don wouldn’t allow it. The same way for the last two years, for our annual two-day tournament — which will be renamed in his honor — he wouldn’t accept any of our contributions for either the trophies handed out to the Low Net, 2nd Place Net and Low Gross winners, or the buffet lunch that accompanied the ceremony. He just wanted all of us to relax, have fun and enjoy ourselves. On him.

Our tournament was the last time I saw Don. He was 40 pounds thinner due to the chemo. He’d shaved his beard. He looked good and sounded even better. On the golf course, he was the same insufferable Don we loved to rib. Somehow, he got the staff at Lido to give him a handicapped flag that he attached to his cart. Like he was going to get sympathy from us?

At that point in time — it was Labor Day weekend — Don thought he was in remission. Turned out the cancer was only hibernating. By January he was back in Florida at the treatment center, playing golf whenever breaks in his chemo and radiation would allow. In mid-February, Don was amidst what would be the last round of gold he’d ever play, at TPC Sawgrass, home of The Players Championship. He got as far as the 4th hole when an attack debilitated him and an ambulance was rushed to the course to cart him off. Stupid sonofabitch asked for a rain check. That was Don.

For the next five months of his life was resigned to a bed, either at the treatment center in Florida, Sloan Kettering here in New York, or finally, at home with his wife and teenage daughter. He may have died Sunday, but as far as I’m concerned, he died that day in February on the 4th hole at Sawgrass. That’s when his vitality was erased. He’d tell you the same thing. At least at that moment, Don was happy in his escape, doing what he loved most.

Our group assembled at his wake last weekend to pay our respects. It was open casket. He had grown his beard again. We mourned and we celebrated his life, recounted stories; everybody had one — and chipped in for a life-size floral wreath that looked like a golf ball on a tee. The flowers bore a hexagonal shape that resembled the dimple pattern on Callaway golf balls, just like the ones Don played. It was the best way we knew how to return the favor for all he did for us.

Don’s death fell amid the recent trifecta of passings in the Yankees’ Universe — Bob Sheppard on July 11, George Steinbrenner on July 13, and Ralph Houk on the 21st. Trying to put it all in context, I thought about Don, and then Todd Drew, and then turned my thoughts to Sheppard, the Boss and Houk. I was angry that each of those men lived a long life and neither Todd nor Don got that opportunity. Then I felt guilty for thinking that.

At least Todd and Don got to enjoy their escapes, and made a point to enjoy them even more when sharing their experiences with friends. That’s a legacy.

If you have similar stories about escapes, whether they be golf, baseball, any experiences you share with “buddies,” please share them in Comments.

[Photo Credit: Inside Florida.com, twooverpar.com]

The Moroccans, By Henri Matisse (1915-16)

David Lebovitz, currently living the sweet life in Paris, gives us Candied Bacon Ice Cream.

No use steering now.

Man, Cyd Charisse should have been illegal. Legs for days…

From Mr. Minnelli, a classic number.

The Piano Lesson, By Henri Matisse (1916)

I mean you’re not going to put Charlie Parker in with the Rock n Roll, are you?

Rump-shakin’, mind-bending, smile why don’t ya?

I know, I know, we featured grilled corn a few weeks back. But it’s summer, don’t ya know, and I just can’t wait to have some good corn, man.

The Times has the article; Serious Eats takes the flicks.

Just Don’t Touch My Records…Ever.

I’m a great fan of Barry Levinson’s directorial debut, Diner. Love all the talking, all those actors (how Paul Reiser practically steals the movie in a small role).

Here’s one of my favorite scenes, about a young couple that don’t really understand each other. What I really like about it is that you can appreciate where both the husband and the wife are coming from, how deep the divide is between them. Doesn’t hurt that Daniel Stern and Ellen Barkin are in top form.

Man, I love this movie.

The Italian Woman, By Henri Matisse (1916)

The best? I don’t know. But my favorite Vietnamese place in the city is Thai Son. Went with a friend last Friday night; hadn’t been there in years and was grateful to be there again.

Slammin.’  Take the trip to Chinatown, wait in line, it’s so worth it.

[Photo Credit: Yelp]

Cool, ‘Cause I Don’t Get Upset

I Kick a Hole in the Speaker, Pull the Plug, Then I Jet