Ross is love.

Make Way for Tomorrow.

In which we learn to invest heavily in our 401(k) s.

Is there anything even remotely as depressing as the prospect of growing old? Perhaps the prospect of not growing old at all, although a good many would consider that preferable to the various indignities of decrepitude which life has in store for us (which begin, oddly enough, at around 30). And that's what's in store for the luckiest of us. Which brings me to today's film: 1937's Make Way for Tomorrow. The feel-good film of the depression years.

In one sense, Make Way is very much of the great depression era (which makes it feel, perhaps unsurprisingly, current). It is the utterly straightforward story of an elderly couple whose home is taken by the bank. Barkley retired only a few years earlier and is unable to find new work because of his age. Though still modestly capable, and in generally good health, he's old and tired, and it's easy to understand how he could be turned over for younger dudes in the employment line. In an era prior to social security (or an era after the security of pension), there's very little for him and his wife to do but to prevail on their grown children. Neither Barkley, nor his wife Lucy has any desire to burden anybody, but there it is. When the assembled family wants to know why no one had heard of the bank taking the house in the months before, when there might've been time to take action, there's no good answer except the one that well-intentioned old people are inclined to give: they'd hoped that something-or-other would turn up, and that no one would ever need to know. It's that type of deeply frustrating and entirely understandable thing that old people do.

It's at this point that decades of movie-going expectations lead you to figure that the rotten-as-hell kids are going to toss aside their parents like old garbage, and presumably learn some valuable lessons about the value of respecting your elders or some such thing. We're not let off the hook nearly so easily. See, if the kids were big insensitive jerks, there'd be no reason to think too hard about any of the proceedings. It's pretty rare, actually, rarer than I realized before sitting down to think a bit about this movie: rare to not get the easy out that comes with thinking that particular characters are being complete assholes. A movie's gotta have a villain, right? If the children were truly horrible people, we'd get to leave figuring: "hey, we could never be that bad..."


Some of Lucy and Barkley's grown children have kids of their own, and they're scattered around the country. None has much room in their homes or in their lives for a couple of seventy-year-olds. The kids gripe and groan a bit, they jockey and argue over who is contributing enough. Finally it's decided that the parents will split up, though they swore that they never would. It's only temporary, they all say...mom will live with one family, and dad with another until better arrangements can be made. And, at first, everyone pretty much believes it. In fact, it all seems very reasonable, given the circumstances. I've seen the jockeying happen in my own family, with good and bad outcomes, but always with an individual, and never the added complication of a couple. Certainly any family of modest means would struggle with two extra people to house.

From that decision to split up the parents, things proceed with their own logic and on their own course. We see bits and bobs of the everyday lives of Lucy and Barkley in their separate homes. Barkley hangs out in the corner store, chatting with the accommodating owner. Lucy tries to ingratiate herself into the world of her son's family: annoying her granddaughter by trying to socialize with her young friends. Sitting in on her daughter-in-laws bridge party. And Lucy can be damned annoying with her old-timey ways. It's not hard to see why the family would struggle with her presence. Everyone's aware of their responsibilities, and there's plenty of affection, but the truth of Lucy and Barkley's situation only becomes clearer and less escapable all the time, even as Lucy indulges in hopes that she realizes are silly. After lives of hard work and family, they've become, primarily, burdens. This was the fate that my own grandmother feared above all others, and probably would be happy not to have lived to face. The movie is fearful from both ends: I'm not sure if the prospect of growing old and burdensome is sadder than the idea of being the one responsible for making someone feel that way. Both fates seem equally possible, in spite of worlds of good intentions.

This all sounds terribly dismal, I realize, and it's certainly not a chipper fantasy. There's not a single note of the film that feels false. It's among the truest films that I've ever seen: the ending is neither unsparingly bleak nor unbelievably happy. In spite of the film being quickly forgotten after its initial release, prolific director Leo McCarey considered it his masterpiece. If the truth-angle isn't quite enough to sell the film, it has moments of extraordinary beauty in it's depiction of everyday life. The entire concluding sequence involving a brief reunion for our lead characters is absolutely magical. More so because we almost never see old people given lead roles in movies. That the characters should also be poor makes it seem almost otherworldly to follow them around for a time.

It seems vaguely criminal to have come this far without mentioning the performances. A character piece like this sinks or swims on the basis of the acting, and it's all pretty darned great. Silent-film vet Victor Moore is a quietly likeable presence as Pa Cooper...all awkward nerves as a man who no longer has any confidence that the world will take him seriously. Beulah Bondi's Lucy, though, positively walks away with the movie. Bond was only around 40 at the time the film was made, playing a woman of about 70. It seems almost spoilery to mention that, since it's impossible to tell during the movie itself. The makeup and performance are such that I never for a moment questioned that this was a woman of some years. It was only when I looked her up later that I realized that she was working until the late 70s. Try to forget about her actual age when you watch Make Way. It's not a gimmicky performance that she gives...it's a pitch-perfect portrayal of an old-lady trying to fit in in a world that no longer has a whole heckuva lot of time or interest in her. It's a lovely, fun, go-for-it performance full of subtlety. Bondi's performance stands out particularly for the time. It was naturalistic in a time before naturalism was the common style in film acting. I wonder if 1930s audiences knew what to make of her.

Make Way for Tomorrow has seen a bit of a revival lately, getting a bit of the reception that it never had initially. It's been a popular feature of the Telluride Film Festival several times now, and there's a recent, and typically great Criterion Collection DVD release. It also pops up on TCM now and again, which is where I caught it. If you're not just the slightest bit more kindly disposed toward the old people in your life (even the obnoxious ones) after this film, then your heart is mercifully harder than mine. And, for God's sake, think about those retirement savings.

Freedoms inextricably bound.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we’ve come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we’ve come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the “unalienable Rights” of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.”

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we’ve come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: “For Whites Only.” We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until “justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest — quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of “interposition” and “nullification” — one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; “and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.”2

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day — this will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim’s pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

Anne Frank tree collapses.

From my favourite spot on the floor I look up at the blue sky and the bare chestnut tree, on whose branches little raindrops shine, appearing like silver, and at the seagulls and other birds as they glide on the wind.

Anne's tree collapsed just yesterday, taken down by a windstorm.

Miep Gies, the primary and last of the guardians of the secret annex, passed away earlier this year at the age of 100. She was also the woman who preserved the diary for Anne's father. It would seem to be a sad year for Anne's legacy, though joy for the lives and longevities of a 150-year-old tree and the 100-year-old-helper is certainly the more appropriate, if less obvious, emotion. If not for the tree to comfort Anne, and the generous Dutch woman who preserved what was left of a life that would have otherwise been forgotten, our view of the Holocaust would be dramatically different. With so much humanity was destroyed, and so many of the traces that we usually leave behind gone with them, would we even see the events of the 40s in the same light without a humanizing face? Without Anne, the Holocaust is a horrifying statistic. With Anne, it's a reminder of the most inspiring and most beautiful aspects of humanity as well the very worst. And, here's the thing: none of this was all that long ago. Violence, genocide, racism, and even simple and ugly intolerance are on the march, as ever. The same ugly human impulses are lurking behind news stories from around the world, almost every day. While a tree is, ultimately, just a tree...not a young woman, nor a legacy, it still makes me a bit sad that there's one less reminder in the world of the consequences of intolerance. I try to be hopeful that, someday, we'll begin to value the rights of others to live as they choose, and that we'll come to respect peace and life over our endless desire for more stuff, but, as they say, it hasn't happened yet.

Today, the Anne Frank Foundation, in addition to maintaining the Anne Frank House and its educational collections, also oversees the Racism and Extremism Monitor organization. Anne's family home on Merweidplein has been renovated and is open each year to a writer for whom political oppression prohibits working in her or his home country.

Anne would have been 81 in June.

F**k You.

Vaguely NSFW (only because of the titular phrase, repeated prominently), nevertheless, I'm loving this song right now. And not just in the Ross-is-12-and-swears-are-funny way that I'd normally enjoy something like this. It's actually a mildly awesome song. Enjoy, just maybe not cranked up all the way at work.

Nerd Rage Rap.

Justin Tyler from The Stack (of whom we're big fans around here) and...some other guy, (who is very amusing as well), let fly with the geek anger that we've all known. Like Atrocitus on Miraclo.

Well, some of us anyway.

Don't get me started on Spider-man's wedding. Definitely NSFW.

[The embed link for the file seems to have caused some problems. Click here to watch the video at atom.com.]

Check out Justin on The Stack.

Smarty's First Comic-Con: A Retrospective. Part 1: Preview Night in the City

From July 21 through July 25, Rosserford, Announcer Mike, Rick and I were in San Diego for Comic-Con 2010, the largest gathering of geeks, nerds, gamers, comic-book lovers, superhero-costume junkies and Joss Whedon fans in the world! Now, I have never seen an episode of Buffy; I do not own a Wonder Woman outfit; I'm not really into comic books; I don't know when to roll the die nor can I do any combo but Scorpion's; I'm too dumb to be a nerd; and I'm too self-aware to be a geek. But the neat thing about this, my very first Comic-Con (Rick's too!), is that I felt like I belonged. I'm still not entirely sure why, but I do know that the people who attended the convention made an otherwise stressful event fun for me. They're just the nicest, strangest, most accepting group of folks you could ever hope to meet. (Having The Boys and Rick with me certainly didn't hurt!)

I'm sure you all saw Mr. Rosserford's delightful and relevant posts from the event -- as cool stuff happened. They really captured the surreal and enormously fun essence of Comic-Con. I tasked myself with something a little different: I've spent the last week or so digesting the experience. Funny: As the days passed, all the not-so-great stuff (lines, crowds, security, traveling, etc.) faded. (I actually had to reach to remember what it was like on the plane.) And I was left with that warm-fuzzy feeling made of spectacular memories and camaraderie. I got to watch my husband and our two best friends geek out (adorably, I might add), and I genuinely loved the people-watching, the excitement and the joy of my companions. The melodrama of air travel and overwhelmed spazziness/grumpiness is simply side comedy when compared with the awesomeness we experienced. This is how I'll remember it.

I think the best way to do this is to split it up into a couple of parts, not only to ensure I'll finish it, but also so it doesn't become The Travelogue of Confused Messiness. Enjoy!

It's the day of Comic-Con, y'all!

I have never flown across the country before. I realize pretty much everyone has, and I must sound like a whiny, little kid, but man: It sucks. A refresher for those who have forgotten: You reach a point during the flight when you can't read anymore. Even listening to your iPod becomes too much work. All you can do is just sit, close your eyes and hope it's over soon. You get unreasonably excited when the flight attendants come around to offer you water and soda and coffee and unusual snacks. You jump out of your seat as soon as the fasten-seatbelt light goes out so you can stand in line to visit the sad, tiny room at the rear of the plane. You try the iPod again. No luck. Finally, you consider going on a killing spree, not because you've become a homicidal maniac or anything, but it's something to do, and it might give you a chance to stretch your legs. In fact, I've just considered stabbing Mr. Rosserford in the eye for no reason but that he happens to be seated next to me. Look at him. Just sitting there, nodding off, clearly as uncomfortable as I. God, I hate him. I hope he doesn't catch me glaring.

The landing is spectacular -- mountains, water, palm trees and tarmac: all welcome sights. What time is it? Really? 10:30 a.m.? Sure. That makes complete sense. We're in Tokyo, right? Oh, San Diego? Wow. We've stepped outside for a cigarette (on my insistence), and it's paradise up in this joint: no sunshine, no humidity, and I have to open up my suitcase and grab my jacket. It's a sweet reunion with Mike & Rick and then a short bus ride/train ride/walk to the biggest hotel I've ever seen.
We check into our adjoining rooms, shower off the airplane ick, and then it's off to lunch at Cafe Diem, a restaurant attached to the Hard Rock Hotel that's been transformed into something out of a show called Eureka. I have never seen this show, but they make a damn fine biscuit and they keep bringing me Pepsi, which is just about the most wonderful thing ever. And Mike & Ross are happy like it's Christmas Eve. 
Close. It's Preview Night at Comic-Con.

We head over to the Convention Center
and walk excitedly through the maze of escalators and ropes and shiny anticipation to check in. We are quickly handed a badge, a Dexter laniard, an event guide, a souvenir book and a laughably ginormous Warner Bros. bag. Oh my god! Free stuff! Back through the maze we go and smack into the first of many lines. But it doesn't matter. We're all waiting to snake down to the exhibit hall, and we're all in the same boat: We are jumpy, tired and giddy -- and we are all trying desperately to be cool about it. (I especially like the kid in front of us who looks and acts like a slightly more socially awkward version of The Gay Kid from Glee.) Mike & Ross are making a game plan: Convention Nerd at the Entertainment Earth booth for Mike; Berkeley Breathed T-shirt, book and autograph for Ross. Rick's going with Mike. I have no plan (other than try not to freak out in the mass of people), so I'm with Ross. The crowd swells forward, and away we go!

Joss Whedon/JJ Abrams Visionaries Panel.

Full video (in five parts) of the Joss Whedon/JJ Abrams EW Visionaries Panel from SDCC 2010.

Says it all.

SDCC Saturday

Oh, god, so tired. All efforts come to naught. Saturday, you are a joyful vexation.thank goodness for my kind-hearted adventure buddies. Sat behind Charlaine Harris at a zombie fiction panel with Max Brooks and some charming hadn't-quite-heard-ofs (note to self and horror fans: check out Myra Grant). Saw Samuel R. Delaney, Alan Dean Foster et al. later on, caught an aged-yet-sharp Ray Bradbury, and saw the season three premiere of Legend of Neil. And shopped, boy howdy. So tired. So much fun to be had. $7 martini weekend, here I come.

Friday at SDCC

Another overcast day in SD. Unfortunately, big show plans were cancelled when it was decided that lines are for suckers. Caught the Inkpot award presentation for Berke Breathed, saw Kane Hodder and some other horror-movie guys, and caught Wil Wheaton's episode of Eureka with Wil Wheaton. Announcer Mike got to meet the cast of BBC's Being Human, and I was asked to sign my first program. By the girl who came with me. But still.