So Barack Obama, who floated magnificently into the White House upon a beneficent cloud of historic awe and wonder only a year ago has found it necessary to step gingerly down onto real soil, where things are gritty, grimy and, well, just a little counter-historical.

The punctuation mark at the end of the new president's first year: the single most influential Democratic seat in the Senate changes over to the Republicans with the election of centerfold model Scott Brown to the patriarchal Kennedy seat in liberal stronghold Massachusetts. To many loud celebrants of the moment, the Obama legacy is already done. Stick a fork in it. Add the garnish. Serve it up. Finis.

Democrats everywhere are stunned. To Bostonians, the feeling must be akin to what they felt when their 16-0 Patriots faltered in the Super Bowl. The beer and pretzels are left to go stale.



The analysts have circled like vultures picking over the carcass of the election. The wonks are turning out the pockets, drawing astonishingly clairvoyant conclusions from the lint. But we should be careful not to over-analyze what may be a surprisingly simple post-mortem. We should be careful not to assume that the Obama election was about more than it really was.

While the election of the first president of African-American descent was a dizzying and wonderful achievement on its own merits, it coincided with a large groundswell of something else that is beginning, with the gubernatorial elections of the summer and the Massachusetts election of this week, to break through the political crust. Far beyond any principal in operation there may be one thing that will overwhelm everything else--a massive (perhaps unprecedentedly massive) wave of voter dissatisfaction.

Wonks on both sides of the aisle, from the ballistic blonde division on FOX News to the oh-so-knowing stuffed suits over at CNN, are going after one another ferociously, all claiming to hear the heartbeat of the nation--what is it that the American masses really want? Do they want less government or more? Do they want expensive guaranteed health benes or independent predatory health roulette? Do they want a socialist messianic state or an avaricious, unethical free market? Do they want dog-protected, barbed-wired, impenetrable borders or a wide open door for Mexican narcotraficantes to slip through and kill us in our sleep? After all, elections are always about the issues, right? Of course right.

When the Obama election swept the Democrats back into power, they wanted it so badly to be about the vindication of their ideals, of their pet policies, of "compassionate" government. Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi felt that their years of toil behind the Bush mast were at last being rewarded.



They were wrong.

What the latest elections have shown is that Obama won because Republicans lost. The Bush years were not good for "conservative values." The propagation of an incredibly expensive war with little or no strategic value, coupled with an almost unprecedented expansion of federal oversight that encroached on everything from how to pack your overnight bag to how to test your children, increased spending on an alarming scale. Add to the cauldron the fruits of two decades of corporate deregulation and malfeasance that allowed for the ex nihilo creation of non-existent wealth, and the whole brew was ready to blow. The Three Wise men of the Right, Rush Lowbrow, Sean Calamity and Bill Oh Really make no mention of this, or they find a way to point their middle fingers elsewhere, But the blame rests squarely on the ruling Republicans with the all-too-willing complicity of Congressional Democrats.

At the end of the Bush administration, the cauldron began bubbling over with a horrific stench. The choice was between letting it blow like a volcano, wreaking havoc everywhere, or purchasing the world's most expensive pressure valve in the form of a federal bailout, sending the worst of the toxic gases into a huge, red deficit balloon meant to contain the damage.

The damage that began to unfold, however, was very real. People, their families and communities everywhere began to experience financial disaster first hand. Voters with previously comfortable political ideologies began to see things differently. People who had never voted before suddenly found a reason to line up in record numbers. And they weren't voting the issues. They were voting mortgages and milk money.



The McPalin debacle was less about "darn-tootin'" Sarah Sixpack and the Aging Mannequin than it was about a rare new thing in Washington--accountability. People don't want policies. They want problem solvers. There was a whiff of hope that Barack Obama might just be one of those, and that he might be able to bring in some folks who could solve problems. People didn't want Hillary because she was part of the Previous Mess. People didn't want McCain because he was a part of the most Recent Mess and couldn't remember how many homes he owned while so many other people were losing the only one they had.

The Obama Administration's biggest mistake has been not to recognize just how important it was for him and his people to get in there and start solving problems on a grand scale. Perhaps it was unfair to expect this of a comparatively inexperienced leader. Sadly, real change was never going to happen as long a the existing apparatus remained untouched. Bitterly partisan players like Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi kept their positions of privilege. Obama began peopling his administration with long-term DC operatives. Essentially, except for a few new faces, the top power deck in DC received only a modest shuffle.

One year later the dimensions of the war have scarcely subsided. Federal initiatives are as intrusive as ever with no sign of shrinkage. The battle over Health Care devolved into a lobbying brawl with quibbling and ideological barn burning rather than solutions. The federal bailout with its gargantuan price tag is being diverted, along with many other vital national elements, offshore to the more forward-thinking Chinese. (Oh, baby! What a day it will be when they start calling in the note!)

But voter attitudes are the same now as they were last year, and a desperate populace is no respecter of parties. The Massachusetts voter turnout was down 20 points from the general election. The highest concentrations of voters were in the regions with the highest unemployment rates, and they voted Republican. Why? Because Massachusetts isn't liberal anymore? Don't kid yourself. They voted Republican because their governing party failed to get their jobs back. They voted Republican because they were immediately furious with the people who looked most responsible. That was the lesson of '08. That's the lesson of '09. And it's about to be the lesson of '10.



Republican Party operatives better learn from this, as well as their Democratic counterparts. It's not about ideals or principals or party platforms. It's about a chicken in the pot and some bacon in the fridge. It's about Populism, just as it was in the early 20th Century when similar economic times struck the nation.

Get a clue. If Barry doesn't sober up and start solving problems, the next greatest politician in Washington will be the next best Populist. Chances are the former Cosmo centerfold from Mass will not be that guy. But somebody will be. One shudders to think of who.

Avatar
[IMBd page]



Billed as one of the most expensive movies ever made, James Cameron's Avatar definitely comes across as a "spared no expense" sort of feature. Cameron, who could be referred to as "the other Spielberg" with his unique string of blockbusters including Aliens, The Abyss, Terminator, True Lies and Titanic, is rumored to have worked on the story for Avatar for 15 years before he felt the technology was right to bring it to life. Did the time and investment pay off?

A week and a half after release, Avatar has clocked a cool 600 million in ticket sales worldwide, indicating that it may have the legs to break records before it's done. (One can only guess how much poorer it might have been without the obligatory McDonalds spots.)

I caught the film in 2D with the family at a local theater and came away feeling as though I had been thoroughly entertained. This, in spite of the formulaic and well-trodden story that telegraphed itself within five minutes. In fact, as soon as I saw the set-up with the neuro-linked quadriplegic hero, I recognized the elements of a short story I had read many years ago, "Call Me Joe" by Poul Anderson (1957), one of my favorite SciFi writers. I dug it out of a packing box and re-read it.



Not surprisingly, I wasn't the first to see the connection, and even the Wiki article on the short story hints at a growing buzz of people wondering why Anderson wasn't credited in any way. Apparently Cameron got sued by Harlan Ellison for a similar lack of credit in Terminator.

At any rate, call Avatar a redux of Dances With Wolves, Pocahontas, Fern Gully or one of many enviro-friendly films, and you would be on the right track. The lack of originality in the plot from that perspective, with greedy mining interests, supported by the military-industrial complex ranged against the heroic and desperately outgunned scientists and natives, is a sad disappointment. And the name of the element being mined on Pandora, "unobtainium" sounds like something that got stuck in the original script treatment and accidentally made its way into the final version. When Selfridge, the evil Big Corporation rep, first said it, I thought it was a joke. It wasn't.

The film also carries an anemic strand of nature theology--ala Green Goddess--that comes across as all such theo-tainments do--curiously devoid of interpersonal ethical considerations while wailing over the death of a predatory creature. However, on the plus side, the adaptive Na'vi religion does at least carry the message that people's actions do have larger consequences.



On to what was good about the film: To quote Sponge Bob Squarepants: Imagination. While the graphic originality of Frank Miller's work is merely interesting (as in, "that's kinda cool"), the best of science fiction in general can offer an imaginative detail involving sheer creativity that is not only impressive but inspiring. On this level, I think Avatar delivers more than its fair share.

Like the games "Myst" and the role play platforms created by Bethesda, Inc., the creative genius involved in the fashioning of worlds is fantastic. My son derides me for spending so much time merely exploring in these games. But the artistry of alternate worlds is what is best about these productions.

The genius of Avatar on the big screen, such as it is, is far more about Pandora than anything else. Like C.S. Lewis' Sehnsucht inducing glass box from his childhood, the open-endedness is exhilrating. Some of us get a charge out of that sort of thing the way others get a charge out of a good song or a snow-board ride down a steep slope. The lush, Hawaiian-based sets, richly adorned with giant trees, floating mountains, gorgeous waterfalls and other terrific vistas snapped on the big screen. It's hard to know whether they will fare so well on DVD.

For action-adventure, the climactic scenes deliver well and James Horner is always good for a brilliant cinematic score. No one really scrutinizes the acting in this type of genre (can anyone say Star Wars?) but if it's bad, it's noticeable. The acting, even from the CGI characters, was adequate. One could even get into the scenery-chewing villainy of Col. Quaritch, played to the hilt by Stephen Lang. And the woefully under-rated Sigourney Weaver delivers a slice slightly reminiscent of her days as Ripley in Alien. Final tally: Three and a half stars out of five.

Sherlock Holmes
[IMDb Page]



Disclaimer: If you (1) are a fan of Morton Downey, Jr and (2) have not yet seen this film, you may wish to skip this review until later. I mean it. I warned you.

From AP's David Germain: "Take it from a lifelong fan of Arthur Conan Doyle: Robert Downey Jr. is so NOT Sherlock Holmes." However, in Germain's view and that of most other informed reviewers of the film, this was not a problem. The dissenting view you are now reading believes heartily that most other reviewers were still feeling the effects of their egg nog. If that makes you want to stop reading, please direct your browser to a happier place.

The film is handled by Director Guy Ritchie, a gangster action movie sort of director, whose Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) is a fine, fun minimum opus. His admitted purpose with the latest Sherlock Holmes was to "reboot an otherwise rather dusty, iconic literary hero." While there is little doubt that he succeeded in creating an entertaining film, one has to argue that it's not a film with Sherlock Holmes in it. If you can get past that, and most viewers from the current generation can without much trouble, then you can have a good time watching it.



That being said, one is forced to admit that the literary Holmes was shaken over the film like a salt shaker. There are some nice little homages in the details, too many to list here, but noticeable enough to give a generous nod to the film's research. This version has a graphic novel scent to it, and with a little digging, you will find that Lionel Wigram had already done a treatment with art through DC Comics, a treatment that heavily informed the visual look of the movie.

On the positive side, the movie looks great and some of the CGI London background is really very good. The action is good, though actually manages to lag on in some spots. The snippy one-liners, quips and verbal sparring are enough to keep the audience chuckling in their seats.

The plot. The plot is straight out of the old "Wild Wild West" TV series, with its wacky, pseudo-science fiction plot, improbable-but-fun fight sequences, chases, bromance and romance, government mingled with megalomaniacal villains, kinda sorta anachronistic mysterious gadgetry and weaponry. All it lacked was the midget villain.

The acting. With apologies to the legion of Morton Downey, Jr. fans, he played very much like someone pretending to be a Brit, "seemingly based on studying Anthony Hopkins and Patrick McGoohan," notes Philip French of UK's Guardian and with a piece-meal costume that conjured visions of Byron and Oscar WIlde at intervals. His dissolute, devil-may-care presentation is actually an anti-Holmes. The literary Holmes would have found him laughable and dismissed him out of hand. Jude Law plays a sharp, dandified Watson, a role that he actually carries off quite well in spite of the "Odd Couple" Felix vs Oscar reparteé that intrudes enough to add comic relief and not much else.



The villain, played by Mark Strong who, ironically looks more like the old Sidney Paget pictures of Holmes than anyone else in the movie, is about as unidimensional a character as one can ask for, to the point of being pretty non-frightening as a sort of wannabe Voldemort with his Roman nose intact.

The principal female characters--Irene Adler and Mary Morstan, the love interests for Holmes and Watson respectively, were flat as week-old Coca Cola. Though she wore her costumes well, Rachel McAdams didn't command the ambiguous subtlety of a wicked-good foil for Holmes as Irene Adler, the sort of role Michelle Pfeiffer would have excelled at in her heyday. Kelly Reilly, as Watson's fiancé, was cursed with some of the film's worst lines and seemed more conscious of her attire than her delivery.

I will give no spoilers, but the film's "reveal," that absolute necessity for the mystery genre, actually has a crow in it (a cliché that became slightly annoying--"Uh oh, there's the crow again!"), while Holmes himself seems to "crow" at a rather inopportune moment, perhaps thereby defying the tiresome parlor convention for this particular stage of the story. There was something of a Scooby Doo effect as well. I half expected Old Man Winters to make an appearance.

My final problem with the movie, its casting and its major premise is that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. The principal creators of the film assumed that the original Holmes was no good and needed serious updating. Variety's Tim McCarthy gushed: "The choice was to transform the historically slim, reclusive, intellectual eccentric into an evident manic depressive whose idea of recreation is to slum in what looks like an East End precursor of the fight club. Such Holmes purists as may remain will blanch, but young audiences, particularly males, will likely swill the topped-out serving of sweaty masculinity, flexing muscle, imaginative violence, unusual weaponry, impudent banter and ballsy effrontery."



While I could not disagree more with the basic assumption that the original Holmes is hopelessly passé, I have to agree that the creators of this movie were savvy in their choices and, given the fact that they are already talking sequel, can expect to hit paydirt more than once.

Final tally: 2 and a half stars out of 4.

Some additional notes for Sherlock Holmes fans:
There are few more iconic figures in English prose than Sherlock Holmes. The literary fan base from day one has been and continues to be enormous. In spite of that, Holmes has not fared well in film. The 14 Basil Rathbone--Nigel Bruce movies from the 40s were tolerable, though they were hardly more than cheaply made crime stories with cardboard characterization on a par with the radio-drama serials performed at the same time. Rathbone and Bruce served to create many of the non-literary stereotypes associated with Holmes (such as the deerstalker cap and coat and the big-bowled pipe, as well as a bumbling Watson).



The other film versions have included several sad attempts at The Hound of the Baskervilles (one including Christopher Lee of Saruman fame), spoofs, derivative tales and one single, solitary gem of a movie, Murder By Decree (1979) with Christopher Plummer as Holmes and James Mason redeeming the role of Watson. The latter film takes its cue from Jack the Ripper and delivers on most levels, with the exception of some conventions borrowed more from Rathbone than from Conan Doyle.

The late Jeremy Brett and the lovable Edward Hardwicke delivered masterful television portrayals for the BBC in a near-complete re-telling of all the Conan Doyle's stories. Though Brett's Holmes is clearly a neurotic genius, each of these faithfully crafted episodes is worth watching.

For fun, check out this page comparing this year's release with the one in 1985.

We met Rollie at a pivotal time in our lives. I had just left my first college teaching job in Newberg, Oregon and we were residing in Oroville, CA near my wife's mother during a summer season of "options." It was a typical Northern California summer--dry, hot and dusty. I occupied my time making mostly futile phone calls, sending out dozens of CVs and application letters and, when bored, whacking star-thistle and weeds with a brush axe. At night, I pulled out some powerful binoculars and gazed at the stars in the clear, clear skies. My wife Leslie helped her mother around the ranch and put up with my jobless angst, patiently waiting for a line to catch to reel in another teaching job.

The ranch cat, a half-wild creature named Baby, had just gotten herself a big litter of kittens. The daddy was a feral beast, a huge Himalayan mix, even more wild, who made brief appearances near the house but vanished whenever you approached him. He looked regal and diffident, dark and serene. I named him Charlemagne.

Naturally, no matter what our larger fate would be, we must have one of the kittens, but which to choose was the problem. I sat on a chair near them to sort out which one we should pick, when one of them took matters into his own paws. A little white and gray fur ball came over to me and began resolutely climbing up my leg, little claws digging into my jeans like climbing crampons, mewing his head off. He climbed into my lap and demanded attention, which I gave him. He was the one.

We decided to call him Roland, in keeping with his sire's name, Rollie "for short," and when, very late in the summer, the job finally came through in Tennessee, we tossed Rollie into the car with a lot of other stuff and brought him along. He handled most of the drive by wedging himself right behind Leslie's head as she drove (I was driving the moving van.)

Rollie would be one of many pets in the household. Around him would be, at various times, three other cats, a dog, a couple of beta fish, and, for a brief period, an iguana (Norbert). Rollie handled all of these with equal grace, granting everyone his space, making very little fuss. He was a most agreeable feline.

As a young cat, he liked to chase hair bands across the room. If you shot one, he would chase it down, retrieve it, bring it back and wait for you to do it again. He seemed to think he was a lap dog. He also loved the little clear plastic lids from hair spray canisters. He was into the sound they made when he whacked them around on the floor. It was a distinct sound and we always knew when he had found another one.

In other respects, Rollie was an adorable, but dull pencil. He was always diffident about covering his business. He had apparently grown accustomed to his siblings taking care of this little detail and, as we have always had other cats, they continued the practice for him. Rollie also had phobias of anything out of place--not sure what that condition would be called--but if anything around the kitty litter area was markedly different, such as a mysterious box or garbage bag or other random item, this was a clear signal to him that he should not approach the facilities. He therefore made his deposits elsewhere. We would sometimes catch him at it, and he was always very apologetic and distressed about having had to resort to such extreme measures, but a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.

He shamelessly begged for handouts, again like a dog. Whenever there was chicken or tuna or sandwich meet, he magically appeared, as if apparating, and would not leave us in peace until a morsel finally came his way.

His phobias extended to virtually anything at his eye level to which he was not accustomed--groceries, shoe boxes, book bags, etc. He would approach these with extreme caution, then dash around and past them, sometimes leaping as if they had struck out at him. This was especially problematic if these threats were sitting in doorways. He might sit nearby for a half hour before screwing up the courage to hurtle past.

He liked escaping outside when he could, which was always strange because once outside, he was terrified. He would go nowhere special. The two times he managed to spend the night outside, I found him curled up near the house, looking pitiful.

I have never seen a more affectionate creature. In fact, other than his tendency to vocalize without the slightest provocation, his craving for affection, which we discovered that day we first picked him out, continued for all his years. This cat could not be deterred from leaping onto your lap, your chest, your back, even your head, all in the quest to get some attention. He would paw at you, drive his head at you, yowl at you. You could hold him and pet him for two hours straight and it would not be enough. He slept every night for fourteen years within physical contact of somebody--either Leslie or one of the other cats. He learned early on that this was something I didn't tolerate.

His vocalizing is legendary in our home. For a cat, he had an astonishing variety of sounds, and he would use many of them if you chose to have a conversation with him. Many years ago Leslie and Nick took to singing "Jingle Bells" with him, with him supplying the last word of every line: "Jingle ... meow. Jingle ... meow. Jingle all the ... meow."

I called him "stupid cat," but it was meant affectionately. He had a thing for cramming his face into my stinky shoes when I took them off.

Always a big cat, he began to lose weight last year. The vet told us he was just getting old. But this year he became nearly skeletal, so then the vet informed us, after a hefty bill of course, that his kidneys were all but gone and he hadn't long to live. We loved on him for the past two months, but he started sinking faster and faster. He spent his days hunched over, a hollow look in his eyes. He still insisted on attention and he and his buddy Oliver actually caught a mouse a couple of nights ago. But finally, after it was apparent he was losing control of his functions, we decided we had to take him in.

All three of us were petting him and crying over him during his last moments. Being the sentimentalist that I am, I'm tearing up even now. Geez.

As we laid him to rest, I said, "I'm not sure he was ever much aware what he was, but he was loved and he brought us a lot of joy."

Farewell, Rollie.