My recent experience with the Band of Brothers podcast made me realized I’m very much a fan of the modern trend of “official” companion podcasts released alongside limited series by the show’s creators—Watchmen and Station Eleven being two recent examples I enjoyed and appreciated.
These are slightly different beasts from the popular post hoc recap podcasts of long-running sitcoms like Office Ladies and Parks and Recollection (two other favorites). Such pods return to their shows years after they ended and usually require a much bigger time investment, given the protracted length of traditional TV shows.
A notable and early hybrid of these approaches: the Official LOST Podcast, hosted by LOST showrunners Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse. It ran concurrently with the show from 2005-2010 and was probably the first podcast I and many others ever followed. Listening to it meant subscribing via iTunes and then syncing new episodes to my good ol’ click-wheel iPod.
Regardless of the structure, all of these podcasts have the benefit of access to cast, crew, and behind-the-scenes insights you can’t get elsewhere. But you really have to love the original show and the podcast hosts to make them worth your while.
(In that way they’re like modern iterations of DVD commentaries. Which, though eclipsed by the rise of streaming and decline of physical media, are still alive. And long may they live.)
3 year old was “helping” me clean out the car on a warmer day by “fixing” a headrest with a wrench, but all you can really see is the reflection of the sun and clouds in the rear window:
Among the pines:
Stumbled upon this view (while walking on a bike path under a bridge), in which the sunlight hitting the dirty creek water formed an X-ceptional angle:
More shapely, shadowy scenes on aforementioned walk:
Band of Brothers, the 2001 Tom Hanks-produced HBO miniseries that dramatized the history of Easy Company paratroopers throughout World War II, was a formative viewing experience for me, especially on the heels of Saving Private Ryan.
That was as a youngster interested in history and World War II, and as the grandson of a veteran who lived through similar combat experiences as Easy Company. But I’ve remained a fan of it due to its earned status as an exemplar of history come to life.
Pod of Brothers
Recently I listened to the official HBO podcast series released last fall in honor of the 20th anniversary of the show. With one episode dedicated to each of the original 10 Band of Brothers episodes, the podcast features interviews with crew—like military consultant Dale Dye—and cast, including Donnie Wahlberg (Lt. Carwood Lipton), Frank John Hughes (Sgt. Bill Guarnere), Damien Lewis (Maj. Dick Winters), Scott Grimes (Sgt. Don Malarkey), and Ron Livingston (Capt. Lewis Nixon).
Two themes emerged among all of the performers who were interviewed:
They commiserated about the 10-day military boot camp they endured during pre-production, which, though not the equivalent of true military training, helped forge real camaraderie and ensured an authenticity that’s hard to find in Hollywood versions of warfare.
They spoke in reverent terms about the real-life men they portrayed, and felt an immense responsibility to honor their true experiences within the larger story of Easy Company. Several of them got choked up when talking about the relationships they developed with their real-life counterparts, and all of them said they’d been personally changed for the better.
Getting the Band back together
Inspired by this listening experience, I did a Band of Brothers rewatch thanks to HBO Max.
Of its many marvels, I’m in awe of just how much is squeezed into 10 hours. Such a runtime sounds quite long, but not when you consider everything Easy Company went through on their journey from Georgia’s Camp Toccoa in 1942 to Germany’s Berchtesgaden in May 1945.
Written by a handful of writers—including Tom Hanks and future Boomtown creator Graham Yost (who used Band of Brothers as inspiration)—the series wisely modulates its storytelling pace within and between episodes, which allow for a dynamic range of experiences and perspectives.
So a single episode can span one day (Episode 2, “Day of Days”) or several months (Episode 5, “Crossroads”), and follow one primary perspective (Episode 6, “Bastogne”) or many (Episode 10, “Points”)—all without sacrificing clarity or emotional investment.
Indeed, our investment only grows as we get to know and grow attached to the huge and hugely talented ensemble cast. Winters and Nixon serve as the emotional core, but it’s the literally dozens of other actors who make the show sing.
(Not for nothing, four of the core cast went on to star or feature in my beloved Boomtown: the aforementioned Donnie Wahlberg and Frank John Hughes, plus Neal McDonough [Lt. Buck Compton] and Rick Gomez [Sgt. George Luz].)
Courage over combat
In the podcast interview with Richard Loncraine, director of Episode 2 (“Day of Days”), he reflected on the show’s legacy:
Band of Brothers should be shown to schoolkids, and they might realize [warfare] is not a glamorous, exciting world—it’s where you die. Hopefully when they watch it, what they’re not thinking is ‘Wow, I’d like to have been there.’ If they do, then we all failed.
In this they definitely succeeded, because the series manages to pull off the tricky tightrope act of valorizing the courage of the soldiers without glorifying combat itself.
The combat we do see is rightfully hellish: gruesome wounds, slain comrades, and haunting horrors no one deserves to witness. The nitty-gritty of the front lines in all its awful agony.
How did these men get through it? In Episode 3 (“Carentan”), Lt. Ronald Speirs, played with icy assurance by Matthew Settle, delivers to a frightened private what I imagine to be an essential insight into the psychology of warfare:
We’re all scared. You hid in that ditch because you think there’s still hope. But Blithe, the only hope you have is to accept the fact that you’re already dead.
I’m not sure if all soldiers would agree with this perspective. It’s certainly as fatalistic as you can get.
But when I watch even the dramatized versions of Speirs and Blithe and so many other brave GIs run through machine-gun fire and artillery and other horrible weaponry, when every single move they make could mean a sudden and grisly demise, I can only stand in awe before their resolve in the face of death—however they find it.
Company of heroes
But what ultimately makes Band of Brothers successful, I think, isn’t the verisimilitude of its battle scenes. It’s the emphasis on the titular brotherhood and their everyday heroism, both in and out of combat.
Sometimes that heroism looks like what Hollywood has conditioned us to expect from war movies: carrying a fallen comrade, charging through a storm of gunfire, capturing enemy fortifications.
But sometimes it looks different: caring for someone suffering a shell-shocked breakdown, risking execution to protest a superior’s professional malpractice, offering to take the place of a rundown veteran on a risky nighttime raid.
Though not as sensational as battle, these moments are just as important. And they validate what Tom Hanks said of the show: “This is not a celebration of nostalgia. This is an examination of the human condition.”
When you examine Band of Brothers closely, you’ll see talented craftsmen doing their best to honor the ordinary, real-life humans who were thrust into inhuman, extraordinary conditions. For that, it stands alone.
Charlie Munger was born in 1924. The richest man in the world that year was John D. Rockefeller, whose net worth equaled about 3% of GDP, which would be something like $700 billion in today’s world. Seven hundred billion dollars.
OK. But make a short list of things that did not exist in Rockefeller’s day: Sunscreen. Advil. Tylenol. Antibiotics. Chemotherapy. Flu, tetanus, measles, smallpox, and countless other vaccines. Insulin for diabetes. Blood pressure medication. Fresh produce in the winter. TVs. Microwaves. Overseas phone calls. Jets.
To say nothing of computers, iPhones, or Google Maps. If you’re honest with yourself I don’t think you would trade Rockefeller’s $700 billion in the early 1900s for an average life in 2022.
It’s called Chadabout and it’ll be a monthly digest of my writing from this blog, plus other things of interest from real life and around the web.
No spam, no ads, no algorithms—just words and links sent with love from your favorite librarian, cinephile, and typewriterist.
A newsletter, huh?
I know, I know: Another newsletter by a straight white dude?
Let me make two things clear: it’s not on Substack (it’s on the minimalist Buttondown) and it’s fully free. Not free for two weeks then paywalled—100% free.
My readership, as humble as it is, has been pretty spread out between WordPress, my various social accounts, and individual-post email followers. I figured this would be the best way to have a direct line to people who are interested in an occasional update on what I’ve been up to.
Fear not: writing on ChadComello.com will remain my priority and labor of love, as it has since 2006. This newsletter is just a supplemental tool for spreading the good word of my work.
I’m in, now what?
You can read the first issue here. It includes the origin of “Chadabout” along with some links I enjoyed, a recommendation, a quote, and a question I hope you’ll respond to.
If you follow this blog via email or WordPress you should have gotten the first issue already. If not, head here to subscribe via email or RSS.
Regardless, thanks for reading my stuff, however you do it.
We celebrated Little Man’s third birthday this week (well, fourth if you count his actual day of birth). While looking through my photos of him I noticed a motif of capturing him from behind as he ventures forth at varying speeds.
I like this vantage point for a few reasons. Since we don’t post his name or face on the internet it’s a convenient angle for sharing. But it’s also an accurate representation of me watching him discover his world over and over again.
Most of the above shots are from very familiar places: our backyard, our local park, our regular family getaway spot. For me as a jaded adult visiting them can get monotonous, but there’s really no such thing to a toddler. Everything can be new and adventurous no matter how many times he’s encountered it.
That’s why I consider it a privilege to follow him into his great daily unknown. All I can do is hope to continue capturing these views, fleeting as they are.
Extra Life: A Short History of Living Longer by Steven Johnson. My favorite author does it again, using his signature storytelling savvy to explain how human life expectancy has doubled in the last century. Vaccines, epidemiology, pasteurization, drug regulation, penicillin, and automobile safety sound like dry topics, but how they came to be is anything but.
KIMI. A lean techno-thriller from Steven Soderbergh.It’s like Searching meets Rear Window with a dollop of COVID paranoia.
Station Eleven. The book was on my list of favorite books of the 2010s, so I was cautiously optimistic about this limited series adaptation. Glad to find it totally lived up to the spirit of the book while thriving as its own thing. Special shout-out to episodes 1 and 9 for being exceptional television.
Hud. That Paul Newman was a gosh-darn movie star.
We Had A Little Real Estate Problem: The Unheralded Story of Native Americans & Comedyby Kliph Nesteroff. Told in rotating vignettes, this book spotlights Native American performers and comedians who have used comedy to cope and reckon with the shameful abuse of Native Americans throughout history.
The Tender Bar. A likable coming-of-age story, with Ben Affleck as the wise and weathered uncle.
The Last Duel. A stellar cast and interesting premise, telling the story and fallout of a rape in medieval France from multiple perspectives. It’s good but also a tough sit.
I don’t use TikTok but I’ve started making Instagram Reels for work and have grown to appreciate the format, however much of a time-suck it can be. There’s lots of creative, funny, and relatable ones out there if you can navigate the ever-changing algorithm.
I figured the easiest way in for me personally was to dash off a few of my strongly held (and correct) assertions about reading and books:
Based on the responses I’ve gotten, if only from friends, they have clearly touched a nerve. There are lots of shame-based reading practices lurking out there, and I’ve now made it my mission to target and destroy them.
I will probably branch off from bookish takes at some point. (Lord knows I have thoughts on movies, libraries, and typewriters at least.) But like my M.O. with this blog, I’ll wait for inspiration to strike.
As a drummer in my college’s jazz program, I once got recruited by one of the jazz guitarists for a paying gig he’d gotten at a local restaurant.
I was interested not just because of the money, which was negligible (not that there is such a thing for broke college kids) but because the idea of being paid to perform with an ad hoc ensemble felt very adult and professional. It was a unique feeling for an introverted 20 year old who was still unsure about his abilities and place among his peers.
The night of the gig, I’m getting situated with the guitarist and bassist, another college-aged recruit whom I’d never met. We’re about to start playing.
I’d drummed publicly many times before: high school jazz band, high school garage band, church services, college jazz ensemble. But this time felt different. Suddenly, the allure of being a very adult professional dissipated and, struck by imposter syndrome, my insecurity leaked out.
I said to the bass player, “You know, I’m not really a gigging musician…”
He gave me a kind of wry smirk. “Nice little disclaimer there,” he replied.
The guitarist counted us in and we were off. I pretty quickly settled in and regained confidence in my abilities and right to be there. The gig went fine, and I certainly appreciated the cash.
This memory has stuck with me years later because it gave me a valuable life lesson:
No disclaimers.
Don’t kneecap yourself before you begin whatever it is you think you can’t possibly do. Even if you suck (which you won’t), just do it and then move on. That’s all you can do.
I deserved the bassist’s smirk. How could I not be a gigging musician when I was seconds away from playing music at a gig?
If you think you aren’t ready, you are. If you think you aren’t good enough, you are.
My wife found a kid-sized easel on post-Christmas super sale that’s whiteboard on one side and chalkboard on the other, and so far it’s been Mr. Almost 3’s go-to activity.
Fortuitously, and perhaps relatedly, his drawing skills have evolved just enough to be able to depict some basic body-like shapes and eyes:
Though they look more like ghosts (or amoebas, or maybe potatoes?) than humans, he’s on the right path and I’m impressed all the same.
It’s been fun drawing alongside him, and trying to keep up. I’ve had to relearn a lesson similar to when he was in his building blocks phase as a baby: no matter how proud I am of what I manage to make, it’ll be gone in a minute or two, tops, because he loves erasing as much as drawing.
With that in mind, here are the books from 2021 that stuck with me.
10. The Great Glorious Goddamn of It All by Josh Ritter
Josh Ritter, creator of one of my favorite albums of all time, dropped his second novel this year and it was quite good. I read the audiobook, which was narrated by Ritter (and probably shouldn’t have been [professional musicians ≠ professional narrators]). But I still enjoyed the narrative voice of the main character, reminiscing about his time in the lumberjack era of early 20th century Idaho.
Choice quote:
Memory comes in to fill the spaces of whatever isn’t there. … Memory has a way of growing things, of improving them. The hardships get harder, the good times get better, and the whole damn arc of a life takes on a mystic glow that only memory can give it.
9. Wonderworks: The 25 Most Powerful Inventions in the History of Literature by Angus Fletcher
I can certainly understand the criticisms of this book, which examines literature through a utilitarian/scientific lens that can come across as reductive. But since books are technology (which Fletcher defines as “any human-made thing that helps to solve a problem”), then it’s perfectly legitimate and even necessary to explore them as such. Examples include the catharsis of Greek tragedies helping to purge fear (while mimicking the benefits of modern EMDR therapy) and riddles activating information-seeking neurons that trigger dopamine hits. The author’s appearance on Brené Brown’s podcast is a good introduction to what you can expect.
Choice quote:
Literature was a narrative-emotional technology that helped our ancestors cope with the psychological challenges posed by human biology. It was an invention for overcoming the doubt and the pain of just being us.
8. The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz
This was a late-year read after Malcolm Gladwell raved about it in his newsletter. Figured it was worth a try as I rarely read mysteries or thrillers. Indeed it was fun to go on the ride of a novelist who comes upon another writer’s plot, harnesses it into mega-fame, then deals with the fallout. As with movies, I didn’t try to figure out the ending as I went, so when the twist arrived it felt earned and as if it were there the whole time.
Choice quote:
Once you were in possession of an actual idea, you owed it a debt for having chosen you, and not some other writer, and you paid that debt by getting down to work, not just as a journeyman fabricator of sentences but as an unshrinking artist ready to make painful, time-consuming, even self-flagellating mistakes.
7. The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green
This collection of essays originated as a popular podcast by the author, which “reviews facets of the human-centered planet on a five-star scale.” Topics include “humanity’s temporal range”, Canada geese, Indianapolis, and many other things you didn’t realize could make for viable essays. Green’s earnest, wending style and keen observational approach makes for very pleasant reading.
Choice quote:
All I can say is that sometimes when the world is between day and night, I’m stopped cold by its splendor, and I feel my absurd smallness. You’d think that would be sad, but it isn’t. It only makes me grateful.
6. Bewilderment by Richard Powers
After I gave up on Powers’ massive The Overstory, I was glad for a shorter story to glom onto. This one, set in my hometown of Madison, follows a recently widowed astrobiologist professor struggling to raise his perspicacious but troubled nine-year-old amidst increasing political, professional, and climatological turmoil. How do you look for life in the stars when it’s under threat on earth?
Choice quote:
Life is something we need to stop correcting. My boy was a pocket universe I could never hope to fathom. Every one of us is an experiment, and we don’t even know what the experiment is testing.
5. In the Heights: Finding Home by Lin-Manuel Miranda
For me 2021 was already the Year of Lin-Manuel Miranda due to his music in In the Heights, Vivo, and Encanto, and direction of tick, tick… BOOM! And yet I still managed to sneak in this book documenting the journey of Miranda’s first musical to the stage and screen (now in my top 10 of 2021), complete with Miranda’s characteristically vivacious libretto annotations.
Choice quote:
The rush of the final Usnavi section stays with me always, and my prevailing memory of performing it is the faces in the front row of the Rodgers Theatre: our $20 section, often filled with young people seeing their first musical on Broadway. I lock eyes with them, night after night, and as their eyes fill with tears, so do mine. I’m delivering these words, but I’m also trying to tell them: I’m home, and Usnavi’s home, and in this time you’ve chosen to spend with us, so are you. Welcome home.
4. Miracle and Wonder: Conversations with Paul Simon by Malcolm Gladwell
Available only as an audiobook, this “audio biography” centers around hours of conversations between Simon and Gladwell about the genius musician’s life and career. It’s less a book and more a limited podcast series, which now seems like the only right way to do a music biography. Made me appreciate Simon’s work anew. (Review)
Choice quote:
Taste is the combination of memory and judgment.
3. Paper Trails: The US Post and the Making of the American West by Cameron Blevins
Learned a lot from this history, which is primarily for 19th century American history nerds but is still refreshingly accessible and peppered with illustrative graphs throughout. (Review)
Choice quote:
Despite the popular ‘Wild West’ narrative of self-reliant cowboys and pioneers, the real history of the region is one of big government: public land and national parks, farming subsidies and grazing permits, military bases and defense contracts. Arguably no other part of the United States has been so profoundly shaped by ‘the state’.
2. Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman
An approachably philosophical exploration of the wily, incorrigible thing called time and humanity’s dysfunctional relationship with it. It’s like a self-help book that deconstructs the need for self-help books. (Review)
Choice quote:
If you can hold your attention, however briefly or occasionally, on the sheer astonishingness of being, and on what a small amount of that being you get—you may experience a palpable shift in how it feels to be here, right now, alive in the flow of time.
1. The Memoirs of Stockholm Sven by Nathaniel Ian Miller
I’d never have heard of this one, let alone picked it up and read it, if it weren’t for a tip from my mother-in-law. This fictional cradle-to-grave memoir follows the misadventures of a caustic early-20th-century Swedish man who, disfigured in a mining accident, retreats to an Arctic archipelago for a self-imposed exile, only to almost accidentally collect a motley crew of friends (human and canine) and reconnect with family in surprising ways. Miller’s exceptionally crafted narrative voice and eye for harsh natural beauty made this a rewarding read.
Choice quote:
For now, take stock of yourself. This is the chance you waxed about so long ago. Listen for the voice that speaks when all others go silent. Be alone—be entirely alone. I am not saying you will find anything of worth there—certainly no cosmic truth—but maybe you will begin to feel as pared down, efficient and clean as a freshly whittled stick.
In 2021 I only saw three movies in theaters, which is two more than I saw in 2020. A personal historic low, it probably goes without saying. But ultimately I’m just grateful to be able to watch great movies, whether at the theater, on a streaming service, or with a library Blu-ray.
To that end, here are the 2021 movies that stuck with me.
10. Shiva Baby
This indie comedy had me cringing but also grinning at its fairly astounding tonal tightrope act, which follows a sardonic young Jewish woman navigating family, friends, and lovers during a shiva. Such a singular, confident debut from 26-year-old (!) filmmaker Emma Seligman.
9. C’mon C’mon
I was split on Mike Mills’s last two features: 2017’s 20th Century Women was as middling as 2010’s Beginners was marvelous. This feels like a return to form, with Joaquin Phoenix as a radio journalist caring for his estranged sister’s nine-year-old son during her absence. It’s a closely observed, touching, and tumultuous portrait of surrogate parenting, and echoes this line from the Richard Powers novel Bewilderment: “Nine is the age of great turning. Maybe humanity was a nine-year-old, not yet grown up, not a little kid anymore. Seemingly in control, but always on the verge of rage.”
8. Pig
Yet another self-assured directorial debut, this one from Michael Sarnoski about a reclusive former chef (Nicholas Cage) who embarks on an illuminating quest to recover his abducted truffle-hunting pig. It’s become pat to laud Cage for the roles in which he really Gets Serious (in contrast to the Go Crazy ones), but it’s nevertheless refreshing when he does tap into his innate performative greatness. And he does here to a quietly magnificent level.
7. In the Heights
With all due respect toSpielberg’s West Side Story, this was the superior NYC-set movie musical of 2021. Better songs, far better talent and chemistry among the leads, and a better overall story that nods to tradition while dancing to its own beats. The mark of a good musical: whenever I listened to the soundtrack (which was often), the songs would earworm me for days. Also recommend In the Heights: Finding Home, the book by Lin-Manuel Miranda and his collaborators about bringing the stage and film versions to life.
6. Passing
This directorial debut from actress Rebecca Hall kinda knocked me out. Ruth Negga and Tessa Thompson star as two African American women and reacquainted friends in 1920s New York City, one of whom is “passing” as white. Facade cracks of many kinds abound, and the film uses the fullest of its rather short runtime and black-and-white cinematography to pack a dizzying amount of portent through them.
5. The Green Knight
I went into this wholly ignorant of the source material but was eventually won over by the haunting filmmaking (by David Lowery, whose A Ghost Story was one of my favorites of 2017) and mesmerizing performances—specifically Dev Patel, whom I hadn’t seen since Slumdog Millionaire (meh). Ultimately it was the film’s perfect ending (maybe the best of the year?) that transformed a pretty good experience into something I knew I’d have to revisit.
4. Dune
Similar to The Green Knight, I went into this as a complete Dune newbie and emerged a fan, both of the world the film created and how Denis Villenueve went about it. Compared to Villenueve’s previous film Blade Runner 2049, which was pretty but alienating, Dune is gorgeous (in a deadly way) and mesmerizing—so much so I had to watch it twice in pretty quick succession. Not sure I’ll actually dive into the novels though.
3. Procession
This Netflix documentary features a group of men who were molested by Catholic priests as boys using drama therapy as a way to overcome their long-festering trauma, by making (non-graphic) short films dramatizing their experiences. Despite (or maybe because of) the heavy subject matter, it’s a really beautiful portrait of a brotherhood formed by shared anguish as these men help each other get through their emotional journeys together.
2. The Rescue
An extraordinary documentary from National Geographic (available on Disney+) about the 2018 Thailand cave rescue, which I remember happening at the time but hitherto knew very little about. Combining arresting firsthand footage with talking heads by the amateur British/Australian cave divers recruited for the job, the filmmakers expertly show how the massive operation’s inspiring cross-cultural cooperation and logistical creativity led to a near-impossible outcome. (I mean, just read the details of the actual rescue for a taste of how preposterous it was.) It felt a little like Arrival meets My Octopus Teacher—two other top-10 films for 2016 and 2020 respectively. Other dramatized versions of the story are coming, but be sure to watch this.
1. The Beatles: Get Back
This nearly 8-hour documentary from Peter Jackson telling the story of the Beatles’ January 1969 recording sessions spoke to me on many levels. As a former drummer in a rock band, I recognized the tedium, tension, and creative thrills that hours upon hours in the studio can engender. As someone interested in the creative process, I relished watching even certified geniuses inch their way from nothing to serenading London from a rooftop in less than a month. And as a huge Beatles fan, I treasured being able to spend so much quality time with the lads from Liverpool as they worked through a difficult period together. This film feels like a miracle, and I’m glad to have witnessed it. (Watched on Disney+, which is the wrong fit for this project. Even if it introduces a younger audience to The Beatles, the long runtime will put off just as many potential fans.)
With the day off from work, I spent the morning traipsing around our snowy yard with Little Man. He introduced me to his snowman (above), we threw snowballs at trees, and rolled down the small hill in our backyard. Lots more snow is on the way, apparently, so we’ll be out there shoveling again soon to welcome the new year.
I don’t have an overarching thesis of my 2021. In most ways it was just like last year: COVID, living with a rambunctious and hilarious toddler, and doing the little things of living every day. Sometimes that’s all you can and should do: shovel snow when you have to, and roll down a hill when you can.
A few highlights:
Celebrated 15 years of blogging!
Read 31 books and watched 57 movies
Got to see Little Man:
get potty trained
attend a (chaotic, barely structured) park district soccer class for 2-3 year olds
take swimming lessons and learn how to play in the public pool
encounter the fauna of Brookfield Zoo and the flora of the Botanic Garden
share endless hours of ball play in our dining room with the Okee Dokee Brothers in the background
Finally wrote about my undying love for the TV show Boomtown, not once but twice
Watched some good TV: Ted Lasso, Schmigadoon, Bluey, Love on the Spectrum, The Great British Baking Show, The Underground Railroad, The Good Lord Bird, and currently Station Eleven
Added these cheap used DVDs/Blu-rays to my collection: Jaws, WALL-E, The Count of Monte Cristo, Red River, Apollo 13, Columbus, The Death of Stalin, Jurassic Park, Knives Out, Paterson, Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse
My Better The Beatles series rolls on with the ultimate selection of the best from Rubber Soul and Revolver. I ended up with a clean eight from each, combined here into Revolver Soul:
Good Day Sunshine
Taxman
Drive My Car
Eleanor Rigby
Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)
Yellow Submarine
Michelle
You Won’t See Me
Here, There And Everywhere
I’m Only Sleeping
Nowhere Man
Girl
I’m Looking Through You
In My Life
For No One
And Your Bird Can Sing
That’s right, the song one listicle ranked as the very worst Beatles song (not going to link to it because it’s ipso facto garbage due to that ranking) is now at the head of the line, despite “Taxman” being one of the best first tracks ever.
The departed from Rubber Soul: “The Word”, “Think For Yourself”, “If I Needed Someone”, “What Goes On”, “Wait”, and “Run For Your Life”. Not sad about these.
The departed from Revolver: “Love You To”, “She Said She Said”, “I Want To Tell You”, “Doctor Robert”, “Got To Get You Into My Life”, and “Tomorrow Never Knows”. Sorry to get rid of both Harrison joints, but I’m just not into the sitar.
I’m creating my annual movie lists retroactively. See all of them.
Looking at the full list of 2002 releases brought up lots of random memories:
going to Changing Lanes and Signs in the theater with my dad
seeing the original teaser trailer for Spider-Man on TV in fall 2001 that featured the World Trade Center towers
watching The Hours in a high school English class twice as an exercise in close-reading a film
rewatching The Hot Chick enough times with my sisters to have the “boys are cheats and liars” chant memorized
Ah, to be young again. This year also saw me transition from middle school to high school. My friend Tim and I were deep into making stop-motion and live-action short films using the LEGO Studios Steven Spielberg MovieMaker Set camera and software. Titles included Doctor Dreadful, The Penington Estate, and Dino Dan—all esteemed Oscar-worthy pictures.
One day I’ll excavate the DVDs full of these heavily pixelated treasures. Until then, on to the list…
1. Minority Report
This was one film, in addition to the LOTR trilogy, that really hooked me into the power and possibilities of film.
2. Catch Me If You Can
Only five years after Titanic made Leonardo DiCaprio a global sensation, this and Gangs of New York (released the same week) confirmed him as a sensational actor as well.
3. Signs
Man, the jump-scares of the aliens on the roof and in the Brazilian street got me real good in the theater. Though The Sixth Sense is great and Unbreakable is his best, this is peak Shyamalan.
4. In America
I’m glad I saw this later on, in college, when I was able to appreciate just how marvelous it is.
Thanks to the late Michael Constantine, aka Gus, for several iconic catchphrases from this movie that I still deploy occasionally, including “put some Windex on it” and “so there you go”.
7. The Ring
This movie is sort of Patient Zero for my dualistic relationship with horror films: I don’t like willingly subjecting myself to horrific content that will disturb my mind and sleep, but I also greatly appreciate supremely crafted suspense films.
8. The Count of Monte Cristo
I’ll admit to not having rewatched this in a while, but my enduring impression is that it is, as Roger Ebert wrote, “the kind of adventure picture the studios churned out in the Golden Age—so traditional it almost feels new.” I also had a crush on Dagmara Domińczyk as Mercédès.
9. Jackass: The Movie
This and subsequent Jackass movies are in my Mount Rushmore of making me cry-laugh.
10. The Bourne Identity
Sure, it inspired too many mediocre shaky-cam knockoffs, but there ain’t nothin’ like Matt Damon and Clive Owen facing off in the countryside.
While trolling for something to read on Hoopla, I came upon Malcolm Gladwell’s new book Miracle and Wonder: Conversations with Paul Simon. It’s only available as an audiobook (or “audio biography”), and wisely so since so much of it depends on hearing Simon play his songs amidst his conversations with Gladwell. In that way it’s more like a limited podcast series than a book.
Whatever you call it, Gladwell’s intention was to interrogate the phenomenon of creative genius, and pinpoint how and why it applied to Simon, whose long and wide-ranging musical career set him in contrast to other contemporary artists who may have had higher peaks (The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan) but didn’t produce at the same level of quality over decades as Simon has.
We tend to be much more caught in the peaks of an artist’s career. But why? The true definition of creative genius—to my mind, at least—is someone who is capable of creating something sublime and then, when that moment passes, capable of reconfiguring their imagination and returning to the table with something wholly different and equally sublime.
Whether Simon meets this criteria is debatable, though Gladwell makes a good case for it.
The other Paul
Regardless, the book found me at a propitious time since I just finished watching and listening to the other famous ’60s singer-songwriter Paul in the documentary The Beatles: Get Back. The film captures McCartney in his first sublime period, which coincided with the transition between The Beatles and his solo work.
His career as a whole is eerily similar to Simon’s: incredible creative and commercial success within a popular group throughout the 1960s, followed by an acrimonious breakup in 1970 and then decades of steady solo output of variable quality.
Per Gladwell’s formulation, both men created something sublime within a relatively condensed cultural moment, then reconfigured their output after that moment passed. Whether those later albums were “wholly different and equally sublime” depends on where you look.
If it’s a choice between The Beatles and Simon & Garfunkel, I choose the Fab Four all the way. (My cheeky Better The Beatles series notwithstanding.)
But solo-wise, I think Simon’s exceptional ‘70s work combined with the highlights of Graceland (1986), The Rhythm of the Saints (1992), and So Beautiful or So What (2011) give him the edge over McCartney, whose early solo work was definitely the best of all the ex-Beatles (though not perfect), but didn’t approach the sublime until Chaos and Creation in the Backyard (2005) and Memory Almost Full (2007).
Seeing Paul McCartney at Wrigley Field just over 10 years ago remains an all-time life highlight. (By seeing I mean standing outside Wrigley listening and singing along and barely catching a glimpse of him on the Jumbotron. But still.) I regret not being able to see Paul Simon live, as I imagine it would have been just as good but delightfully different. Which, perhaps, is what Gladwell would consider it too.
