War Horse: beauty in stark relief.

I wanted to wait until I’d seen War Horse twice before writing a review. I watched it with eager anticipation back at Christmastime, and my gut reaction was to love it. (I can’t say the same for my philistine family who joined me in the theater…the less said about their artistic tastes, the better!). I had reason to expect great things; Steven Spielberg, to this point still my favorite director, crafting a story about nobility and bravery amidst war (one of his specialties), with a new and stirring score by John Williams. But four years ago I was burned by such high expectations with the fourth Indiana Jones movie, so I had as much reason for doubt.

And not everything in War Horse works. There’s a two-dimensionality to some of the characters—perhaps because we don’t spend enough time with them (and because the story isn’t really about them in the end), perhaps because of casting. Some of the interactions don’t ring completely true. The early scene between Albert and his buddy Andrew, for example, feels like a rejected scene from the Shire. But in the end these weaknesses are transcended by what the story is really about, and there is also a larger sense that we are watching a fairy tale, and the characters are no less two-dimensional than a Pinocchio or Peter Pan.

What the story is really about is that in war everybody loses, but against the backdrop of an incomprehensible hell goodness stands in stark relief. War (here World War I) is more than just the backdrop of War Horse; it is the subject. Spielberg chose a war that resonates in our time, a war of ambiguity, of faceless adversaries, of interminable duration, of confusion and a prevailing sense of senselessness. Perhaps Spielberg simply painted this war as ambiguous, but it’s true that there is no Hitler here, no Holocaust, no clear moral imperative to rally other than patriotism. There is no demonization of any nation or side here. There is simply war—bloodshed and gunfire and pointless suffering.

That is what our attention is directed at, and in the foreground is a series of vignettes, characters tangled in the unmerciful barbed wire of war. Here is the British officer who promises to look after a boy’s horse, only to be undone with enemy gunfire; here are two German boys trying to escape combat, only to be executed as deserters; here is a French girl who wants to ride, only to die in some vague way connected to the fight; here is her grandfather who will pay any price to cling to the shadow of her memory, only to find himself squared against a British soldier—not in combat, but in devotion. In war, everyone loses. Victors limp and bear the scars left by extinguishing a life; two good people stand in opposition over a valued horse, whether in No Man’s Land or in the auction ring.

War pits man against man, and he doesn’t always know why or who he’s fighting. It calls on human beings on both sides to murder. It leaves no one unscathed, whether man or horse. Caught up in the senselessness, men try to adopt bravery, deny cowardice, to fight with steel and valor. The smallest acts of compassion or courage stand as solid silhouettes against a blood red sky. In War Horse, war is revealed as nothing but hell, and every tiny flicker of heaven (displayed by gestures of kindness, sacrifice, loyalty, and humility—from the offer of wire cutters to the mercy of a coin toss) gleams all the brighter. The epitome of this contrast is Joey the horse—galloping through hell, showing no partiality, inspiring goodness and grace in every camp he passes through. Nor can he escape the cost of war, ensnared as he becomes in the very bowels of the fight. No one escapes, everyone loses, but the redemption is found in the contrast, in every bit of beauty seen against the mess. The goodness hardly justifies the war—it is simply more vivid because of it.

the Muppets (with a lowercase ‘t’).

It’s no doubt disproportionately philosophical to think as deeply and agonizingly about The Muppets as I have the past few days, let alone write a critical essay about it. But the Muppets—being Jim Henson’s wonderfully dexterous family of puppets led by Kermit the Frog—played a huge role in my happy childhood days. We inherited a love for the Muppets from our mother, and while I only saw bits and pieces of the original Muppet Show growing up, I fed on a steady diet of The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper, The Muppets Take Manhattan, The Muppet Christmas Carol, Muppet Treasure Island, and Muppets from Space—not to mention Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock, Muppet Babies, and far lesser known offshoots (Muppet Classic Theatre, anyone? How about the album Kermit Unpigged?). I should hope I qualify as a fan.

Jim Henson was something special. Like Walt Disney, he had a massive imagination and the entrepreneurial gumption to bring it to life. The inimitable voice of Kermit, Rowlf, Ernie, and others, he created a distinct brand of entertainment—part wordplay, part sarcasm, part slapstick, part irony…all heart. Along with Frank Oz, Henson authored a world where felt-and-fur puppets interacted effortlessly and convincingly with the real world. The Muppets rode bicycles, drove cars, cooked, danced, bent iron bars in half, and broke the occasional human heart. Jim Henson brought a lovable family of misfits and drama queens to life, and we never believed for a minute that they weren’t real. He built an enduring piece of Americana entertainment, and imbued this goofy band of characters with such aching warmth and love that the term “Muppet” will always mean something far more meaningful and transcendent than “puppet.”

I was always aware of the shift that happened when Jim Henson (and Richard Hunt) died, drawing a line before A Muppet Christmas Carol and on. Not only was Kermit’s voice different (along with several other central characters), but the Muppets began assuming the roles of other characters—albeit with a Muppety spin. The timbre and quality of latter projects was admittedly inferior to the authentic, earthy zest of the Henson era, but I still found much of the same humor, warmth, and zaniness in them (Christmas Carol is an unparalleled Yuletide gem), and it was still largely the same people and voices underneath the characters. For me, as long as Frank Oz was involved it was still certified Muppets.

Then the franchise got sold around to different companies, eventually bought by Disney, and languished in embarrassing made-for-TV specials for years. Frank Oz took his hands out of Miss Piggy and Fozzie Bear, and I lost all interest.

News of The Muppets swirled around long before 2011, and the (annoying) campaign of parody trailers and ubiquitous TV appearances built anticipation for an unusually long period of time. I didn’t find the parodies funny, and I saw nothing in the glimpses of the film to get my hopes up. I was mostly ambivalent about the prospects, if not a little bugged by what seemed like yet another failed opportunity to do something special with these great characters.

Then the critical buzz began to overwhelmingly counter my blasé assumptions about the movie. Critics were almost unanimously praising the movie, lifting it to the darling status typically reserved for Pixar. (Even Kevin Clash—Elmo himself—assured me that they “got it right” when I shared my worry.) My expectations altered course, and I was actually excited to see the movie on Thanksgiving day—to see my beloved Muppets given their due on the big screen once again, and wash away all the mediocrity they’ve suffered over the past decade or more.

All this is to preface why I was so disappointed with The Muppets.

The movie simply didn’t work for me. That’s the most gracious way I can put it. It wasn’t a terrible movie, it wasn’t as bad as some of the junk I’ve seen the Muppets in, but it didn’t work. It promised to be a reverent reanimation of what the classic Muppets did so well, and (for me) it didn’t keep its promise. It was clearly created by fans; if anything, it almost sagged under the weight of all the Muppet Show / Movie in-jokes and self-aware references. I appreciate all that, on paper, but the execution was void of the charm and magic of the very thing at which the movie kept looking over its shoulder.

Yes, it bothered me that all of Frank Oz’s classic characters are now voiced by new people. It really bothered me that one of the last original guys standing, Dave Goelz (aka Gonzo), was given all of about three lines (or perhaps, like Oz, it was his choice to step back and play a diminished role). What resulted was predominantly imitations of the key characters that comprise the Muppets, and while that doesn’t necessarily spell doom (iconic characters like Goofy, Donald Duck, Winnie the Pooh, and countless others have been re-voiced to varying degrees of success), it prevented me from getting lost in the Muppet world, and contributed to the general vibe I got: that in fact the movie was just an imitation of a Muppet film.

The jokes, the human cast (does it get any more innocuous than Rashida Jones?), the Ben Foldsy songs, the Enchanted dance numbers—they all felt like they belonged to another movie. The story centers, at least initially, on Jason Segel’s character and a new Muppet (Walter), and really hinges on these two for a long while (Kermit and the gang don’t enter the picture until several sequences in). And because I failed to find Segel (or Amy Adams) appealing, and found Walter to be the most boring, anonymous Muppet ever created, the story was nearly dead on arrival. Once the real Muppets came on the scene, things picked up a little and steered closer to true Muppet territory, but again, they felt kind of like imposters. A few jokes worked (I liked Zach Galifianakis’ Hobo Joe, for instance, and Gonzo’s “destroy plumbing business” button), and the movie certainly had moments (it was special seeing a spot-on recreation of The Muppet Show opening, and how can you go wrong with “The Rainbow Connection”?). But more jokes fizzled than fired, elements like the Jack Black cameo felt lazy, and when the movie wasn’t piling up acknowledgments of Muppet heritage it was operating like a silly family movie from a completely different franchise.

I’m probably giving this way more thought than it’s worth. (Although, Jeffrey Overstreet’s thoughtful and touching reflections on the Muppets and their role in his development have inspired me to dig deeper into my love for Kermit and Company.) I’m just perplexed as to why this movie made a “rainbow connection” with so many fellow Muppet lovers (and is drawing praise from almost every film critic), when it missed my receptors by a country mile. I am truly glad there are still Muppet fans out there, and that a group of them made this movie in an effort to celebrate the warmth and nostalgia of the fuzzy troupe. ‘A’ for effort, as they say. But I wanted this movie to stoke the old Muppets fire in me, and it didn’t. I saw a bunch of kids lovingly paying homage to a great, great thing…but it wasn’t the real thing. The hands and voices have changed, and the enterprise has changed with them. The movie itself offers what might be the best metaphor for what I found: a Muppet tribute band.

The gospel of Heirloom.

From our first week living in South Pasadena, I have been an evangelist for Heirloom Bakery. Positioned at the railroad tracks on the corner of Mission and Meridian (“Historic Route 66,” the signs declare), it caught our eye on the very first day we explored our new neighborhood. On Saturday of that first week, after a packed few days of my program’s summer “boot camp,” Alison and I sauntered inside the bakery—with a hope supplied by the testimonials of many Yelpers.

We were first struck by the charm of the cafe (clean, a looming glass pastry display, quaint seating, a chalkboard announcing “Now serving dinner!”), then the friendliness of the employees. The baked wares looked delicious enough, and we settled on splitting a chocolate croissant and a breakfast sandwich. Of course I ordered a large cup of coffee—dark, for here. We paid and stepped outside to enjoy our breakfast in the California morning air.

I can make no claims to being a coffee connoisseur. Though employed as a Starbucks barista for half a decade, I was a late bloomer to the delights of brewed coffee—only arriving at my current love by way of the commercial route of flavored creamer. But I know when coffee tastes great and when it doesn’t; I like my coffee bold and unapologetic. I’ve been to far too many reputable diners and breakfast establishments that compromise their tasty solids with weak, namby-pamby coffee. I may not be a connoisseur, but I do have high standards.

With the afterglow of too many episodes of Twin Peaks in my mind, I held up my left hand, palm out, as I took my first sip of the swirling, steaming brew, tan with cream. What splashed my tongue was something so absolutely unexpected in its pleasure, all the more rich for its surprise. Bold and dark, strong and smooth, this coffee walked—no, danced—the razor’s edge between the snares of weakness, bitterness, and burntness. In the duration of one cup, I had boldly crowned a new king: Equator Coffee.

The croissant and sandwich were no less delectable; it was no fault of their own that they failed to inspire my heart to fall to its knees in adoration like the coffee. The sandwich—generous portions of eggs, bacon, and fresh tomato housed within succulent scratch-made bread—was incredible. Since that Saturday, we began going every Saturday with religious fervor, and I’ve discovered many other favorites (number one the buttery almond croissant, simultaneously dense and airy). There has been no going back from Heirloom, and I have found no equal. I immediately began verbalizing and tweeting exultant proclamations about Heirloom and Equator, with no ulterior motive other than the joy bubbling from my heart that demanded sharing.

Two weeks ago, after a long and somewhat frustrating job search, my wife became employed by this amazing bakery, and now we are there far more often than every Saturday. The coffee is no less exquisite than that first day, and I’ve never had a bad cup. I fear that, with her saturation and behind-the-scenes perspective, my wife may one day burn out on Heirloom’s delights. But may it never be so for me, a devoted lover and spreader of the good news of Heirloom. May it never be.

The highs and lows of pilgrim style living.

Alison and I have gotten quite adept at consolidating our junk to a single carload and moving it thousands of miles to new residences. Not only have I accepted the minimalistic lifestyle necessitated by the trifecta of low income, transitoriness, and limited space—I’ve actually grown to enjoy the freedom that comes with fewer possessions and the catharsis of purging my junk. We are an obese society, not just in terms of physical fat but material fat as well. Most of us walk around with the clutter equivalent of spare tires and jiggly thighs, and my itinerant relocating has resulted in a liberating kind of liposuction.

Another aspect of this that we’ve gotten used to, and I dare say even learned to enjoy, is owning no permanent furniture. We move to a new location, then beg, borrow, or buy off Craigslist whatever we need: bookshelves, chairs, a coffee table, a desk. With the exception of fabric-centric items like couches and mattresses—where the unknown variables of previous ownership range from foul odors to sentient bacteria—I’m perfectly content to use only second-hand objects to rest my food, clothes, or rump upon. We buy these items on the cheap, and when we’re ready to move again I have no qualms re-peddling them on Craigslist and recycling them back into the great circle of lower-middle-class life.

The benefits of this pilgrim style living are many, but one of the key downsides I’ve found is that, when we move into our new location, it hardly feels like a home. Stuff—be it furniture, art, decor, or simply the particular arrangement of clutter—is often what makes a house feel like home. We took to California with us only what we thought we’d need and little else. Thus, gone are the bookshelves teeming with varied and colorful old spines. Gone are the drapes and curtains that warm up a lifeless room. We left behind all that we didn’t “need,” but I’m learning that it’s all those needless things that make me feel at home.

So the dilemma now becomes, do we simply accumulate more “new” stuff to populate our empty apartment and transform it into a happily cluttered nest? Or do we open the door every day to a depressingly spare monastery of blank walls and an open floor? Hoarding is one vice that I am able and only too willing to let go of, but I’m starting to miss the pleasant domestic side-effects of being a pack rat.

Resist the schmooze.

One of the tougher vices I try to resist—now that I’m in the golden land of Hollywood—is the insidious act of schmoozing. It’s been hard not to schmooze ever since I started getting access to B (and occasionally A)-list composers, but now that I have the ability to communicate with various celebrities (both garden variety and the film-score-nerd brand) via email, phone, and in-person, the temptation is all the more alluring.

By schmoozing, I mean glad-handing, sweet-talking, or sycophantically approaching someone who I think can elevate me in some way. It can include asking for favors or privileged access, or simply the act of talking to someone. Schmoozing can be for the purpose of advancing my career, worming through the right channels to get access to the top dog, or maybe just for bragging rights. These are all temptations, some more seemingly “legitimate” than others.

I struggle knowing where the line is between appropriate networking and schmoozing. It’s a simple fact that “who you know” often plays a huge role in getting the jobs and opportunities you want. There’s nothing inherently greasy about making beneficial connections. To avoid being a schmoozer, I do my best to put myself in the celebrity’s shoes, to avoid coming across like a used car salesman, and erring on the side of not being pushy enough. I actively keep my distance at times, or wait a little longer to call back, or discard that drafted email.

But beyond the pitfalls of the more accepted act of networking, too often I crave the sweet fruit of posture and position that I think comes with chatting up so-and-so or displaying the personal note so-and-so sent me. I hanker to just call X person up and see if they can do lunch…and I question my motives. Ideally I want to be friends with these amazing people, but am I approaching them as I would a true friend…or as a film music god with enough clout to make my follow-up tweet glisten in the sun? Am I arranging for a meet-up out of pure curiosity or enjoyment, or am I doing it just to fill my ego bladder to bursting?

Not only is schmoozing a reprehensible characteristic (and reputation) to have, but it can do serious long-term damage to the relationships I’m trying so hard to cultivate. Must…resist…the schmooze.

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