Frank

So, through whatever conflation of good luck and circumstance, I've been accepted for an internship out West. I'll be leaving soon, and am doing all I can to complete my coursework before I leave. And I'm really going all out. If eating less peyote on the weekdays is what it takes--by gum, so be it.

At any rate, flickr, Yahoo!'s photo-sharing resource, has introduced a nice little code package for posting slideshows on blogs, so I thought I'd give it a shot. This is a little roundup of what I've been doing over the past year or so.

*(If you run the mouse over the main photo, it'll hide the gallery at the bottom; click on a photo to see cutline info.)

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Yes, we've all seen or at least heard about the show To Catch a Predator. TV crew entices old men to a house in which they think a young girl is waiting. They bring the usual stuff like booze, whipped cream and of course the confused look when they find out that they are on TV. Well, one movie has a similar premise, setting up a pedophile, but instead of a TV crew at the helm, a 14-year-old girl masterminds a plot to get even with a presumed pedophile. It sounds a little out there, doesn't it? I thought the same thing, but that's what makes the 2005 film Hard Candy so intriguing.

I often find myself scouring through my cable's On-Demand feature for a movie that, one, has an interesting title, and two, has a twisted plot. The movies that I enjoy are the ones with no-name actors, bizarre and drug-induced plots that are so unfathomable - a good independent film if you will. Hard Candy, directed by David Slade (the director of the new horror film 30 Days of Night), brings you a mind-twisting plot that keeps the audience guessing what is going to happen next, while, of course, grimacing and wincing at the same time.

The viewer gets to know two characters intimately, partly because these are pretty much the only two you see during the entire film. The 14-year-old girl, Hayley Stark, played by Ellen Page, and a man in his mid 30's named Jeff Kohlver, played by Patrick Wilson. The two meet on the Internet, and then decide to meet at a local café, at which time Jeff realizes that he really shouldn't be there because he's starting to realize that the age difference should be recognized. At this point, Hayley takes her advance to the next level and makes it a point to go to Jeff's house afterwards. Jeff, knowing better but going against his conscience, agrees, and now it's time to let the mind games begin!

This is where the viewer now sees the 14-year-old girl, not as an innocent, soon-to-be victim of a pedophile, but as a devious being that is looking to get back at a man that has intentions of sleeping with a young girl. Hayley, who apparently has this whole thing planned out, makes Jeff vulnerable by graciously giving him tainted drinks. When he wakes up form his alcohol-induced coma, he finds himself tied up. Hayley then makes it clear she has him tied up for one reason. She has intentions of performing a surgical procedure on him to try to ensure he won't stalk little girls anymore. You know, the type of procedure that clips the family jewels. Does she go through with it? It's worth checking out, so is the ending that lets the pedophile choose between death and living with the permanent identity as a pedophile. I bet ol' Jeff wishes he didn't try to tempt little girls.

This movie hits some extremes that I have never experienced before. A plot based around a little girl tempting a supposed pedophile for the purpose of justice? Really a backwards plot from the norm. You want to cheer for her, but at the same time you have to ask yourself if she is just as screwed up as he is? These dynamic, I mean real DYNAMIC, characters are the key to the movie. Since there were only two characters that the audience gets to know, the writers did a masterful job of revealing them. The plot twists will keep you guessing just to the end. If sick and twisted movies are your forte, then this movie should be on your to-see list.

...I'd just like us all to take a moment to reflect on the wisdom of our leaders. In this case, wisdom that was on display in a man when he was but a lowly cabinet appointee--wisdom that was, sadly, to be shelved just under a decade later, when he was an actual elected official.

Hurray!

*Note: Given the cool, level-headed nature of this assessment of Middle Eastern policy, this post rates a Robert Goulet Threat Level of:

When the sea of saffron swept into the streets of Rangoon heralding the protests by Buddhist monks as the vanguard of the pro-democracy struggle against the military junta, there were shades of a similar struggle waged more than four decades earlier when Black South Africans, in the spirit of Mahatma Gandhi's concept of satyagraha, waged peaceful demonstrations against the policies of the Apartheid regime.

That process changed after Sharpeville when police fired on protesters, killing 69 people and injuring 180 others. Passive resistance gave way to guerilla warfare by the outlawed African National Congress. It's not likely that monks will be arming themselves with AK-47's in the face of ruthless repression by the government and this is perhaps one of the main reasons the Free Burma Coalition argues that any comparisons with South Africa's struggle for freedom are unfair to make, even though they fail to take account of how the latter's remarkably peaceful transition has been lauded as a model of democracy, its amnesty program emulated for the manner in which conflict resolution has been addressed and how reconciliation and nation building have become the building blocks for change.

I'd argue there are elements that are similar – the monks taking to the streets, akin to the way students and workers in South Africa marched against unjust rule; how two unjust regimes have countered peaceful protests through brutal acts of oppression, have jailed activists and ignored international appeals to end to violent crackdowns; how Aung San Suu Kyi, still under house arrest, has come to symbolize the best possible hope for transforming the country in the way Nelson Mandela, despite being incarcerated for 27 years in South Africa's prisons, represented the hopes of Blacks for a new dispensation; and how calls for sanctions to end white rule are once again being championed by organizations putting economic pressure on businesses to withdraw their interests in Burma.

While South Africa's nascent democracy grapples with issues of crime; HIV/AIDS; service delivery, or the lack thereof to poor communities, it's hard-earned image as a model of democracy on the continent is being tarnished by it inability, although some might say unwillingness, to address such challenges, not least of all confounding the international community through controversial stances such as its silent diplomacy on Zimbabwe, HIV/AIDS responses and recent posturings on Burma.

South Africa voted with China and Russia in January this year against a United Nations Security Council resolution that was critical of the situation in Burma. Deputy Foreign Affairs minister Aziz Pahad was quoted as saying that South Africa didn't believe troubles in the Asian country could pose a threat to international peace, adding that he believed the UN Human Rights Council is the forum for debating such problems. A former anti-apartheid activist, Pahad has forgotten, or chosen to ignore the fact that Burma was one of many countries which, through the Security Council, supported action against the racist Pretoria regime after the Sharpeville massacre.

After campaigning to be on the Security Council, South Africa's unpopular vote will not have endeared itself to the U.S., which was behind the draft resolution, and its European allies. But then again, it might argue that it's not occupying a seat to win friends. The military junta was, no doubt, pleased by South Africa's vote on the resolution, which effectively defeated attempts to force the military government to release political prisoners and speed up progress towards democracy. And therein might lie an ironic contrast - between the new South Africa, carrying the baggage of its past by stifling debate and the attitude of its former rulers who tried to block Security Council criticisms on the treatment of anti-apartheid activists.

As I write this, the United Nations special envoy on Burma, Ibrahim Gambari has begun his second visit to the embattled country. His first fact-finding mission uncovered disturbing reports of widespread abuses and the mass relocation of arrested monks. It's unlikely that the mandate he carried on behalf of the international community to urge for reform in Burma has been heeded and one might question what benefit there is in a return visit if the military government stubbornly refuses to end its violent crackdown, not least of all consider transferring power to the National League for Democracy (NLD), which won a landslide victory in the elections of May 1990, but was prevented from governing the country by the State Peace and Development Council, a misnomer if ever there was one, of the military junta.

One hopes there won't be killings on the scale of Sharpeville for decisive international action against Burma, or Myanmar as the regime prefers to be known. The blood spilt by peaceful activists was a tragic sacrifice for liberation in South Africa. The monks show an equal determination to defeat the policies of their government, but the catalyst for transformation should never be another Sharpeville.

As someone who is a huge fan of the Beatles yet not a big fan of musicals, I wasn't quite sure what to expect going into Across the Universe.

I thought the musical, set in the 1960s to the Beatles songbook, could either be an unintentionally amusing flop—"genius" along the lines of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet series—or perhaps it would be the real thing, a rare and brilliant execution of the genre (something along the lines of the last musical I truly enjoyed, Moulin Rouge).

Sadly, it was neither. Instead, it was just another boring musical (or as the Beatles might chime in: "It can't get much worse…")

The problem with Across the Universe is the problem with the vast majority of musicals. That is, putting aside the obvious (acceptance of an alternate universe where random strangers spontaneously—and simultaneously—break out into well-choreographed routines in the middle of grocery stores, train stations, libraries, and barber shops, among other key locations), the major mistake of this—and most—musicals is that their totem pole of importance usually places plotline somewhere between on-set catering and folding chairs for the extras.

For a movie that details such a tumultuous period, one clouded with uncertainty and distorted with revolt, Across the Universe portrays a rather dull, sanitized version of those times. Assembled is the perfect cast of plucky young bohemians: the former homecoming queen turned student activist, the rebel without a cause who gets drafted to Vietnam, the tortured artist who mirrors the explosive times in his abstract artwork. With a gang like this how did The Man ever stand a chance!

What's more, you know each character will have that Zelig-like superpower, enabling them to be a part of every single important moment throughout the decade. (Think: The kids of Fame meet Forrest Gump…What's that you say, Lucy accidentally walked into the lead student protestors room and discovered he's really part of the Weathermen?!)

Nonetheless, at the heart of all of it is a love story—or several love stories, really. All you need is love, right? The main love story involves British immigrant artist Jude (Jim Sturgess) and his American sweetheart turned student activist Lucy (Evan Rachel Wood). And, yes, Jude and Lucy are just two of the familiar names you'll recognize…there's also Sadie (she of the sexy variety), Max (of silver hammer fame), Prudence (who came in through the bathroom window)…corny as hell, no? I half expected Polythene Pam to show up with her pet raccoon Rocky in their Yellow Submarine no less.

While it's obvious that a film like this would see the decade through the counterculture lens, it would have been all the more effective had it occasionally seen the sixties through the eyes of those who, as Bob Dylan sang, stood in the doorways and blocked up the halls. It would have been exponentially more powerful had we witnessed the generation gap by hearing "She's Leaving Home" through the parents, or maybe the imperialistic tension in "Bungalow Bill" through a dutiful soldier.

Where the movie succeeds from falling completely apart is in the singing performances of the lead actors. Wood, in particular, does an outstanding job singing, demonstrating a strong vocal range. In fact, the entire cast does a fine job of interpreting the songs while still staying true to the melodies and phrasing most of us hold sacred.

However, these fine singing performances are not supported by equally interesting musical tracks, and so it comes off as a form of karaoke—you quickly realize that the magic behind The Beatles was not just the composition of their songs, but also in their skill as musicians. Noticeably absent are the wandering McCartney bass lines, Ringo's drum flourishes, John's choppy rhythm, and George's meticulous leads. In their place are generic, watered-down versions played by what sounds like robots set to "groovy sixties jams."

The film also features several uninspired cameos. U2 frontman Bono pops up as the infamous "Dr. Robert," the psychedelic pill-pusher. The singer oddly chooses to portray his character by channeling Robin Williams channeling Leon Redbone channeling Timothy Leary. Even brilliant comedian Eddie Izzard's cameo as "Mr. Kite" is disappointing, coming across more like an outtake from "Beetlejuice." Of course, there's also the obligatory appearance by Joe Cocker. Good to see he's still getting paid to have seizures to our favorite Beatles classics.

Occasionally the film hits the right note and when it does so you see the potential within the entire musical that is not being met. One such example is the use of "She's So Heavy," an obscure tune from the Abbey Road medley. As the young men are sent down a conveyor-belt at the draft office, a poster of Uncle Sam decries: "I want you, I want you sooo baaaaad, it's driving me mad, it's driving me mad…." Totally creepy. Then, cut to the swamps of Vietnam where a group of soldiers, like pallbearers, are carrying the Statue of Liberty while singing the chorus: "She's so heavy…" You clearly see the powerful statement that resonates with our current attempts to export democracy abroad.

But aside from those few moments, the movie seems more like a pleasant flashback than a spaced-out magical mystery tour. It will appeal more to those who lived through the times and can look back on it as a matter of nostalgia (now that they're 64). And while it falls just short of an episode of "High School Musical" where the gang digs up a ‘60s time capsule, it probably will appeal to a younger generation yearning for something more than "American Idol" can ever hope to offer.

Ultimately, though, Across the Universe is not the powerful artistic statement it could have been—and that the Beatles' music deserves. Nope, instead it was just another boring musical. Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about…

I watched 13 Tzameti at the Kansas Union last Monday. It's a French thriller that's part of the University's French film festival. If you're searching for something wild and ingenious, even sick and twisted, you've come to the right place.

Nothing I've seen has rivaled the amount of suspense contained in this black and white film by new director Gela Babluani. It built and progressed in intensity like some abnormally dark Sigur Rós song: it starts quiet and slow, with some small melodies of plot and intrigue here and there. Halfway through, however, it builds until finally the whole band is in full, cymbals crashing and guitars and synthesizers wailing an intense and driving melody.

Sebastien, a working class twenty-three year old, is re-roofing a house when the owner dies. He discovers the owner was in a crime ring and, in a seemingly meaningless decision, decides to follow through with one of the dead man's jobs. He travels to Paris by train, sleeps in a specified hotel and is woken up in the middle of the night by a phone call. Things start to build from there. You get a few cues that something ominous will happen, but nothing prepares you for what the main character stumbles into. By the time he realizes what he's joined, it's too late.

I sat on the edge of my seat for nearly 40 minutes sweating out hostile chemicals I didn't know my body could produce. This reaction was achieved in part by the fact I expected to walk into a cute "let's fall in love in Paris" movie with an accordion-driven soundtrack. I had instead stumbled into one of the more intense hypothetical situations ever presented to me.

13 Tzameti succeeds in creating suspense because it takes the necessary time to invest in the main character. You see him as he goes about his life. You meet his poor but tight-knit family. You get a feel for who he is and how he functions. And when he gets in over his head and he becomes locked into a deadly game, you are locked with him.

The first half of the movie has a dark clammy feel, similar to that of "The Machinist": the dialogue is sparse, Sebastien is quiet and enigmatic and the world is bleak and indifferent. Babluani keeps the themes easily within the bleak existential range, where each decision or plot twist requires no justification.

While black and white, nothing in the film seems to be that way. Stuff just happens, and there doesn't seem to be any sense of what's right or wrong.

If you're looking for a movie layered with social meaning and depth, this is not the one. If you're looking for a relatively mindless high-intensity film noir, this is the ticket. And in that regard, it blows your head off.

Four out of five popcorn buckets for Ranjit.

So I just went to a restroom in Budig and was having a nice enough time. I rounded the corner to use the sinks and was mildly disappointed there were no mirrors in front of the sink. I turned on the water on the nearest faucet, and a piece of raw corn shot out.

Alright, on to something important. I just thought you weirdos would appreciate a little story like that.

Ever since British journalist Stephen Grey, exposed the nefarious activities of CIA agents abducting suspected terrorists and flying them to secret detentions centers to be tortured, I've been intrigued how the Hollywood studios would reproduce a big screen version of such a practice at a time when the so-called war on terror remains the biggest foreign policy objective of the Bush administration.

And so it was with much anticipation that I went to see "Rendition," and to my surprise found that director, Gavin Hood, is a fellow South African, a fact I learned only in the closing credits. Given that the only other known export from the country is one Charlize Theron, there was admittedly a measure of pride, but after two hours, any lingering biases disappeared as quickly as government spies could whisk away a suspected Al-Qaeda operative.

The film stars Jake Gyllenhaal as CIA analyst Douglas Freeman, who appears more suited to deskwork than being assigned to a case file involving Egyptian-born American Anwar El-Ibrahimi, (Omar Metwally) who disappears en route from South Africa to Washington. Anwar's pregnant wife, Isabella El-Ibrahimi (Reese Witherspoon), is waiting for his arrival at the airport, and unbeknownst to her, he is abducted by the CIA and flown to a secret location outside the country where he is brutally tortured for information regarding his links with a terrorist. Isabella then begins a desperate search for her husband and her anxiety over his whereabouts becomes the focal point of the movie.

It's a compelling and topical story which mirrors real-life experiences of families who've agonized over the disappearance of loved ones. It's a fresh topic in the spy genre and "Rendition," is likely to be the first of many Hollywood films that explores variations of this extraordinary and controversial practice that has seen some European countries secure arrest warrants for CIA agents known to be involved in illegally abducting foreign nationals. There's also the startling case of Maher Arar, whose false arrest and abduction could make for a moving real-life drama that looks at how the Syrian-born Canadian was taken from John F. Kennedy International Airport to Syria where he was held for a year and regularly tortured because of his alleged links to Al-Qaeda. It turns out that the Canadian government had provided false intelligence to U.S. authorities and Arar was released and awarded a settlement of more than $10 million Canadian dollars.

It's against this backdrop that Director Gavin Hood makes his Hollywood debut with "Renditions," presumably on the strength of his last film, "Tsotsi," a South African-made drama about an urban gangster. The movie won an Academy Award in 2005 as the Best Foreign Language film. With Meryl Streep and Alan Arkin in supporting roles in "Rendition," Hood has an all-star cast that's enough to intimidate any newcomer to the big screen. When he was studying film at UCLA, he showed he was up to the demands of Hollywood when he flatly refused requests by producers to alter a script called "The Reasonable Man." Chances are it that it could have been made into a film and Hood might have enjoyed the limelight earlier in his career, but his stubbornness showed that if anything, he could be a most (un)reasonable man.

By asserting his own artistic independence, Hood signaled that he had every intention of doing things his way. That's commendable, but "Rendition," hardly has any bold signature that reflects the director's particular visual style, much as say one might identify the fast-paced and witty dialogue interspersed with graphic violence as particular to Quentin Tarantino or Robert Redford's trademark suspense-filled political thrillers, like Spy Game and the much anticipated Lions for Lambs.

"Rendition" makes no major departure from a predictable plot that is compounded by some insipid performances by the lead cast. The storyline is as straightforward as a suspected terrorist being abducted, tortured and possibly released into the worrying arms of his wife, who for dramatic effect is pregnant.

What is puzzling though is that the CIA, in the guise of Gyllenhaal's character, shows discomfort at Anwar being tortured by his Egyptian captors. This despite the fact that the very purpose of the CIA's rendition tactics in the film is to convey a message of ruthless agents bent on subverting domestic and international laws by condoning torture whether or not their targets are innocent. Douglas has so much of a conscience that it leads him to drug and alcohol-induced excesses and in an amusing comeback in which he is rebuked by his senior, Corinne Whitman (Meryl Streep) for having doubts about Anwar's guilt, replies: "It's my first torture," to which she responds that the U.S. does not torture.

Hood directs without any flair and artistry. We don't get to see any sophisticated technological gimmickry waged by the limitless financial resources of the war on terror machinery. In an age where viewers are becoming accustomed to high tech spectacle and engaging melodrama, "Rendition," offers very entertainment value. As a political thriller, it lacks the depth and suspense that covert activities lend to mystery and intrigue, as evidenced in say Tony Scott's Enemy of the State. Hood doesn't exact any deeply emotional performances from either of the lead stars. Isabella is not convincing as the emotionally distraught wife intent on finding her missing husband. Douglas on the other hand has parts where there's no dialogue for prolonged periods and even then his character hardly strikes viewers as a man deeply troubled by injustice.

Welcome to the unforgiving world of Hollywood Mr Hood. As a compatriot, I'm rooting for you to carve your own identity in the way some of your southern hemisphere counterparts Peter Jackson (Lord of the Rings) and Baz Luhrmann (Moulin Rouge) have done. And on the present showing, it's going to take a lot more than "Rendition" for box office success.

The title of Andrew Dominik's "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" says a lot about the movie itself. You know what to expect and, just like its title, the film is drawn out – to the tune of 160 minutes. The fact that the film's title wasn't shortened from the title of Ron Hansen's novel (from which it was adapted), though, says the most about "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford."

Dominik could have taken this story Hollywood and slapped a snazzy title on it to make it more marketable. Instead, Dominik, the film's producers (Warner Bros. and Plan B Entertainment), cinematographer Roger Deakins, and cast focus their efforts on turning this modern Western into a work of art.

Ironically, Dominik and Deakins put the "Mid" in this Western by shooting, not in Missouri or Colorado, but in Alberta and Winnipeg, Canada. The result is one breathtaking backdrop after another.

The film begins with Jesse, played by Brad Pitt, standing all by his lonesome, taking in the beauty of an open wheat field along with the viewer as a voiceover narration gives a detailed description of Jesse (which, I presume, is directly from Hansen's novel). These opening minutes set the tone for the film, stating simply that Pitt and imagery will keep the viewer engaged.

But what would Jesse James be without his band of outlaws?

The story begins with Jesse camped out in the woody hills of Missouri with his brother Frank, played by Sam Shepard, and his fellow train robbers. Here, Robert Ford, played by Casey Affleck, makes an awkward attempt at coaxing Frank into letting him become a permanent member of the James gang, while his brother Charley Ford, played by Sam Rockwell, effortlessly fits in with the rough crew.

The train the gang is waiting to rob approaches in pitch black, allowing Deakins to work his magic. As the light from the train's headlight passes through the forest, the robbers' masked faces emerge hauntingly from the darkness.

When Jesse finds the train's safe essentially empty, he exhibits the short temper that made him a notorious killer, his eyes penetrating any who cross him. But the robbery sets into motion a chain of events that lead to Jesse's demise. From there, the list of men Jesse trusts dwindles down to the Ford brothers.

From there, as the scenery changes from fall to winter to spring, Dominik and Deakins continue to experiment, shooting from behind 19th-century-style window panes, distorting the figures beyond – perhaps as a way of showing how all men and their intentions can become distorted in the West.

One of the best scenes of the film comes during Jesse's journey to test his partners' integrity and he stops by the unkempt home of gang member Ed Miller, played by Garret Dillahunt. Ed, who is noticeably slow in the head, is overwhelmed by Jesse's imposing presence and is barely able to speak. But Pitt doesn't steal the scene. Instead, his domineering persona is matched by Dillahunt's timidity and mumbled words. To the film's credit, it trades flawless annunciation by its actors for more fractured and realistic dialogue, befitting of uneducated characters.

The rest of the film's memorable scenes involve Pitt, Affleck and Rockwell. Rather than owning the screen, Pitt seems to bring the best out of his supporting actors as Affleck delivers a breakout performance and Rockwell plays his character into a more central role than he might have otherwise been.

An admirer of Jesse from childhood, Robert is driven by his desire to be as famous as the outlaw. His grand plan is to become Jesse's partner and go from there, but when he is shunned by his idol, his plan changes. Through Affleck, the viewer sees the fine line between Robert's love and hate for Jesse, framed in an uncomfortable boy trying to become a man in the West.

For Charley, Rockwell brings back a toned down version of his "Wild Bill" Wharton character from "The Green Mile." Charley contrasts his brother as the type of sidekick Jesse is looking for: Good-natured, easy to talk to, and too simple to be disloyal.

As for Pitt, he again proves there's no role he can't play. Much like his characters in "Babel" and "Snatch," Pitt allows himself to be a little rough around the edges. While he does have one nude scene, it isn't for the sake of female viewers. In one of Jesse's early encounters with Robert, he's seen bathing (with the camera at his back) to show the scars he's received as an outlaw. Not only scars from bullet wounds, but the emotional scars of having to carry a gun with him at all times – even in the bathtub.

In Jesse's last days, Pitt's acting genius comes to the forefront as he teeters from one emotional extreme to another as evidence of how paranoia has consumed Jesse's life, even at home. At times he's generous to his friends and affectionate with his family. Other times he's anxious and even unleashes the same maniacal laughter he perfected in "Fight Club." To his family, Jesse is Thomas Howard, a loving husband and father. He's gone out of his way to isolate them from his violent, murderous lifestyle, but when he takes in the Ford brothers, they are ultimately exposed to the gruesome nature of his secret life.

The film's greatest failure and triumph come on the day Jesse is assassinated.

That morning Robert goes to the water pump to calm his nerves. Perhaps trying to illustrate the adrenaline rush Robert is feeling, Dominik unnecessarily intensifies the effect of the water rushing from the pump and the wind sweeping through the tall grass around him. This visual experiment detracts from the tension of the moment.

But minutes later Dominik redeems himself with an incredible portrayal of Jesse's murder. His death isn't slow and dramatic. Rather, it's instantaneous and, because of the authority Pitt gives the role, epic. The most striking aspect of Jesse's death is how dull and vacant his once-pulsating eyes are as he lies on the floor bleeding in his wife's arms.

The credits don't roll there, though, for the fate of the Ford brothers have yet to be presented. Throughout the final sequence, Dominik tries some freeze frames to transition from one scene to the next, reminiscent of "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

While the film lacks a "Butch Cassidy" ending to ensure itself a place among classic Westerns and despite its length, this visual masterpiece, driven by Pitt and Affleck's performances, is a can't-miss Western. The bigger the screen - or, in this case, canvas - the better.

I try as far as possible to keep abreast of events in South Africa, but a tragic bit of news had escaped my attention. A photographer that I'd worked with was fatally shot last month after attending a church service. Not content with that, the alleged perpetrators killed another churchgoer, in an apparent bid to steal the vehicles of their victims. Later, parishioners who met for a bible study session were robbed at gunpoint. Fortunately, the police were swift to react and made some arrests.

It seems people going to church are easy pickings for criminals. There's no chance that female congregants are packing pistols in their purses, ready to take on ruthless carjackers the minute the service is over. You stakeout the parking lot and prey on the pious, who haven't a prayer against the cold reality of a 9mm revolver. So might the thinking be of these faithless fiends. Nurses used to be the target. You help save a life in the trauma ward, step outside the gates of the hospital after your shift and the reward for your service is losing your life over a cellphone and some spare change. Just like the teachers, who endured the rigors of educating rebellious youths, only for criminals to teach them a lesson of their own.

But, back to the photographer. Elaine Anderson and I often worked together and got on very well. One Sunday, we were assigned to cover a standoff between supporters of the African National Congress (ANC) and the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) in the township of Umlazi, Durban. We got to the scene and felt the tension so palpable that the prospect for a bloody clash, in an ever-growing battle for control of political turf, was very real. Elaine took pictures with a long lens camera and felt that for our own safety we had to leave. I persuaded her to stay. Besides, returning to the office with just pictures and no story, wouldn't sit well with the news editor. We moved closer to the action – a situation not without an element of danger as fierce-looking, machete-wielding groups taunted each other. I thought about Elaine's children and grandchildren, and for a moment regretted exposing us to such risks. Razor-wire barricades kept the two groups apart and the military were in the middle trying to keep the peace. One soldier, sitting atop an armored personnel carrier, realizing we were journalists, and perhaps sensing our fear, gestured to me to from a distance to remain where we were, although it seemed that the more the ranks of armed supporters swelled, the more potentially dangerous it became.

Fortunately the standoff didn't result in a bloody clash, but I relate this story as one of many precarious situations Elaine and I were exposed to, mostly through covering the cycle of political violence in the townships. To come through all of that and be shot dead emerging from a church service is a cruel twist of fate. Elaine's daughter, Arlette Pillay is still coming to terms with the shock of her mother's death and church leaders have voiced their concern that violent crime is destroying the country.

A former colleague of Elaine's and a close friend, Clint Zasman was also a talented photographer. We worked together on the same newspaper and like the Fleet Street hacks of old, had liquid lunches in keeping with some of the vices of the profession. Clint was brazen and had a creative eye for pictures, although this photographic essay on aspects of the violence doesn't do justice to his talent. Some years earlier, he too was gunned down, not in the line of duty, but at a popular bar that we both frequented. Three gunmen entered the place, presumably with the intention of robbing the establishment and Clint was shot in the process.

Last month, one of South Africa's most famous musicians, Lucky Dube was shot in a botched carjacking attempt. I'd interviewed Lucky some years ago and never imagined that he would go on to become so well known outside the country's borders, his brand of reggae music even striking a chord with the folks in Kingston, Jamaica. Lucky's death made international headlines and marked my debut as a commentator on a Kansas City-based independent radio station.

These recent killings have once again cast the spotlight on government's apparent inability to tackle spiraling crime. South Africa has the dubious distinction of being known as the crime capital of the world. In 2010, tens of thousands of football (soccer) fans will be descending on the country when it hosts the World Cup. The country will roll out the welcome carpet and instead of smiles, there will be a flashing of guns.

My response might be that of the typical cynical journalist, but when I see a country and its people I love so dearly being held to ransom by rampaging criminals, while political leaders bicker about which billionaire or politically-damaged candidate should lead the country, I fear the worst for any semblance of security, peace and stability. Those in office don't like criticism of any sort and depending on the ethnicity of their detractors, respond in predictable fashion - racists if you're white and unpatriotic if you're black.

Besides being a photographer, Elaine took an interest in reporting and for a while worked as a crime reporter – a beat she liked, but only because she had a deep concern for the manner in which crime impacted on the lives of ordinary people. Lucky Dube composed a song entitled "Crime and Corruption," which ironically dealt with his fears of being killed by a carjacker. Elaine and Lucky both showed a deep-seated concern for the disturbing social ills in post-Apartheid South Africa. That the country has been robbed of such humble artistes is a testament of the pervasive influence of crime. The "miracle" of the rainbow nation's transformation to a new dispensation is being tarnished by the smoke and mirrors attitude of government towards crime. And it doesn't take a magician to know that it has to clean up its act.

Steve Carell has become a movie star in leading man roles by playing characters who possess the exact opposite characteristics of what most people consider the leading man or movie star persona. The romantic comedy, The 40 Year Old Virgin, is the finest example to date of his patented socially inept leading man character.

Carell, who co-wrote and co-produced the film, plays Andy Stitzer, the title character. Andy is an unaware, modern day Lonely Guy who collects action figures, reads comic books, plays video games, and rides a bicycle because he doesn't own a car. After a few romantic, but traumatic excursions when younger, he gives up trying to lose his virginity. When his coworkers learn of his situation, they befriend him, vowing to cure him of his affliction. His friends, played by Paul Rudd, Seth Rogen and Romany Malco of the Showtime sitcom "Weeds", give him a crash course on women and help him briefly embrace his bachelorhood before realizing his true desire to settle down with Trish (Catherine Keener).

Even though his character in this film embodies the quirkiness and awkwardness of Carell's character on NBC's sitcom "The Office", the characters are different. Andy Stitzer is a more approachable character than his TV counterpart, Michael Scott.

The similarities between the two paradigms exist in more than just the two of Carell's characters. Both The 40 Year Old Virgin and "The Office" have Carell surrounded by a great supporting cast which allows Carell to achieve something different with each story.

The supporting cast in The 40 Year Old Virgin allow Carell to be more approachable because they play characters that are practically as dysfunctional as his character. This makes Andy seem less pathetic than Michael Scott and more like a traditional film hero.

All of the characters curse unnecessarily and unapologetically, which aids in their awkwardness. That combined with quite a bit of sexual content amounted in an R rating for the film.

A reappearing theme throughout the movie is the sexual frustration of Andy, which at times is painful and offensive to watch although the fact that this movie has a sincerely funny scene right around the corner from the painful ones makes it well worth watching.

A unique aspect of this movie is how the resolution is crammed in after the climax. This works well thematically because within the resolution is the scene where Andy loses his virginity which amounts to a climax that takes about a minute. The subsequent and immediate sex, however, took substantially longer and was followed by an hilarious and truly memorable song and dance ending to the movie.

A Film Review of Into the Wild

I'm gonna say it. Sean Penn is a dick. I mean just look at him. The guys got a white man afro, a constant smirk, and an unrelenting "holier and more important" than thou art attitude due to a few phony, self-publicized "crusades" in New Orleans during the hurricane.

Aside from his laid-back stoner role of Spicoli in the 1982 sex romp "Fast Times At Ridgemont High," I'm not even a big fan of his much-lauded acting style.

So, needless to say going into a 2 hour and 40 minute epic about a boy who wanders the countryside and is a direct result of this man's directorial vision, I was not too expectant of a film like the one I got.

Due to the director's outspoken view on politics, I believed I was going to be in for a pretentious film with little content and too-many pedantic fau-insights. What I got…whether I liked it or not, was something else entirely.

The film, based on the non-fiction book by Jon Krakauer, tells the true story of a young man in the early 1990's who is recently out of college, and who has decided to burn his money, abandon his car, and leave his family to walk the earth and travel the country in search of enlightenment.

His travels first take him rafting down to the Gulf of Mexico, and he meets many people along the way, (including a girl that falls in love with him, an old hippie couple, and a pair of stoned nudists). Ultimately however, he is determined to leave them all behind and make his way to the icy domain of Alaska and the promise of a solitary, almost holy life out in God's cold country.

When he arrives there, he finds "the magic (abandoned) bus" (which, in the absence of other human characters takes on an almost human feeling). This is where he will learn, after the fact, that he has digested a poisonous root and will soon starve to death.

The overwhelming sense I took away from the film was one of heartbreaking irony. The truth that he was so in search of throughout his journey is finally discovered tragically too late and in the face of a terrifying isolation…what he discovers after years of searching (in his words) is that "happiness is only real when shared."

The haunting image of Alexander "supertramp" dying on the magic bus will forever be burned into my mind.

The landscape photography is so beautiful that the terrain seems to become a character in it of itself. The haunting atmosphere throughout the film alludes to a nature that is alive and dangerous. The wild animals help remind supertramp at how small he really is in the face of the world, and ultimately how much he has lost by choosing to abandon people. The acting by the lead, eclipsing anything that the director could have done, is astounding and should be considered for an Oscar.

Who would have thought, with "Into the Wild" Spicoli has made a masterpiece film; A film that I now consider not only one of my favorites of the year, but one of my favorites of all time.

**** (out of 4)

Into the Wild - a review
Excruciating. Into the Wild, from the first scene, was an excruciatingly sad and tortuous journey. I can't even say adventure because that would denote fun and excitement.
The first press I saw on this movie was an interview with Sean Penn, the movie's director, producer and screenplay writer, on Oprah. Into the Wild is a true story about a young man, recently graduated from college, who embarks on an adventure across the U.S. on his way to Alaska. What a good idea for a movie, I thought. It is another story, like Huck Finn, Blue Highways and On the Road, about someone stepping out of their comfort zone and discovering the world and themselves. But it is a story for our day and age of hurry, hurry, hurry, work, work, work, spend, spend, spend. And, just as all great movies from books should do, I was encouraged by the interview to buy the book, written by Jon Krakauer, the author of Into Thin Air, a story of life and death on Mt. Everest.
But as the Oprah interview continued with Emile Hirsch, the actor portraying main character, Christopher McCandless, I realized the final, dire outcome. The more I heard the angrier I became at the selfishness of McCandless. I no longer wanted to see the movie or read the book because I didn't want to honor or give profit to that selfishness. Most of all I didn't need to go to a movie to be devastated.
That was my bias going into the theatre to see Into the Wild.
The movie opens with Chris McCandless's parent's faces filling the screen, mom sobbing, and dad comforting. It is the first of many close-ups through out the movie. Marcia Gay Hardin and William Hurt achingly portray Chris' abandoned parents. Their anguish sets the tone for the next 2 hours and 20 minutes. As a mom I felt their pain.
The movie meshes scenes from Chris' travels with scenes from his life before college, shown as book chapters. Many scenes have narration spoken softly by Chris' sister, Carine. The interwoven scenes and narration serve as an explanation to what happens on Chris' journey. The structure also allows the viewer to breathe, ease their pain and regain their composure before the next chapter.
Another clever touch is the handwritten messages that Chris scrawls across the screen as someone would on a postcard. Certainly, that is what this movie is at its very base.
Chris keeps a journal of his experiences, discoveries and thoughts. He wants to leave his mark. He jots down the important lessons learned about truth, happiness, and family. He is anxious to soak up his reason for being.
Emile Hirsch is convincing in the lead role. His integrity as Chris is helped along because his Hollywood movie resume is short. Chris is an innocent, game playing, and fun loving youngster when he begins his journey. His physicality and physique in the role adds to the true-life story.
Along the journey Chris meets some engaging characters and sees eclectic places.
Every character and location is another opportunity for Chris' education. Two key figures, a hippie couple portrayed authentically by Catherine Keener and Brian Dierker, are the loving, truthful parents Chris' needed while he was trying to shed his own parents.
A break in the reality of the journey was Vince Vaughn's role. Perhaps because of his many recent roles he stood out like a sore thumb in an ensemble of less media-hyped actors. He was believable as a good old boy farmer but it took me out of the story flow. However, Hal Holbrook, a mainstream screen, TV and stage actor, was very believable in his role as a grandfatherly mentor. Perhaps his age and his previous rolls as the sage, allow him to flow in this movie.

Believability is also broken in just one scene, when, after a conversation with an apple he is eating, Chris gives a quick stare into the camera. It broke the moment, an otherwise real moment, and I was surprised that Penn didn't leave it on the cutting room floor.
Otherwise, the story is all about the truth. There are many symbols that speak toward the truth; the idea of looking closely, the vastness of your surroundings in regard to your own minuteness, the barriers to movement once your have discovered yourself and the importance of life, of being in the light and dark, the black and white, the long roads and jet planes taking people away, and Chris' conversation with the wise old owls.
The cold scenery, from the beauty of Alaska to the robotic, chaotic L.A., evokes many emotions, which are not lost on Chris or the audience. The music, most of which is written and performed by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam, add to the movie without being obtrusive.
My question regarding the message in this movie is whether Chris had to go to Alaska to learn what is important in life. The same lessons can be learned in a studio in New York City or a dorm room in Lawrence, KS. I don't object to the exploration, just to the selfishness and stupid way Chris went about it. Maybe Penn's lasting gift of Into the Wild is to present the lessons Chris learned without the audience having to personally experience the heartbreak.
I have a few questions: who is the audience, who would want to see the movie and who can I recommend it to. It is an important movie. It is so very well done on every level. But it is excruciating on every level. I guess I would want those who doubt the importance of truth and family to see this movie. Especially parents. This movie might be the Cliff notes for those in search of meaning in their lives.

The used clothing comes off when different social classes mingle in Lawrence.

My wife recently went to a garage sale in Alvamar. It was her boss's garage sale and in case you're not familiar with Alvamar: it's a neighborhood where the homes are easily priced in the upper six digits with seven digits not out of the question. These sort of events represent one of the ways that different social classes mingle in Lawrence.

The mingling of social classes makes the community of Lawrence unique. It happens in three ways: a strong focus on the family, arts and culture, and the reusing of material goods.

Through KU, and Lawrence Parks and Recreation, family events are abundant. At these events, citizens think nothing of the fact that a child from a blue collar, east Lawrence family plays with the child of a C.E.O. from west Lawrence. A similar phenomenon happens around the arts, because art is generated in Lawrence by people from the lowest to the highest economic stations of life. Art appreciation has a similar range of social status.

Another arena that different social classes mingle in Lawrence is through the redistribution of materials. Members of all social classes in Lawrence have a healthy respect for how people can reuse things. I've heard stories of people finding practically new Kirby Vacuums (retail value around $1500) at the Goodwill or picking up, at garage sales for a few dollars, original pieces of framed art, that probably sold new for hundreds of dollars. I myself have bought a gigantic Eddie Bauer tent that was probably four or five hundred dollars new, paying a fraction of that; an Oscar De La Renta sports coat; business suits; Ralph Lauren Polo shirts, shorts and sweaters; and framed original works of art. I once saw a collection of Armani neck ties at the Social Service League, but I didn't have any cash and by the time I got back from the ATM, they had already been swoopt up.

At the end of the night, my wife and I sat chit-chatting with two other couples including the hosts. It was a pleasant, late summer evening as we sat near a magnificent in-ground pool complete with an overflowing fountain in the middle and hot tub on the side, all surrounded by a beautifully manicured garden that sat on the edge of a golf course. It came as a total surprise to me when the conversation turned toward skinny-dipping.

After everyone toyed with the idea for a while, it occurred to me the golden opportunity that was presenting itself. When I was a teenager, I would have hopped a fence to have done this if I thought I could get away with it. So I did it. I dropped trow and before anyone could say anything, I dove in. Everyone joined: it's been my experience that no matter what the social status, practically everyone loves to skinny dip.

My wife did convince me to put my underpants back on since every body left theirs on. The funny thing is that I did consider this as an option to begin with but chose not to because I had some rips in them and in my drunkenness I thought being completely bare ass was less embarrassing. I like to think that if I hadn't been drunk, I would have made the same decisions.

All in all it was a great evening spent with people who had a stake and a managerial say in a Fortune 50 company. An evening like that demands reflection when it's over. And even though I ripped it all off, when I reflect on that evening, I can't forget what I wore: a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt I got at a garage sale for 50 cents; Ralph Lauren Chino shorts: 10 cents, Social Service League; Ray Ban sunglasses: 75 cents, Goodwill; skinny dipping in a neighborhood where the homes cost about a million dollars: priceless.

Call me Scrooge, but when radio stations begin to play Christmas music on Halloween, I'm not okay with that. When my scholarship hall unpacks the "holiday tree" and displays it prominently in a light-lined front window and strings garland and tacky red bows up the staircase, I'm not okay with that either. Two of my formerly-programmed radio stations have even been replaced because I am just not ready to listen to Christmas music and I won't be until after my stomach is full of turkey and I see my Jayhawks defeat Missouri at the end of this month.

It is a conspiracy created by merchandise retailers and perpetuated by radio stations across America.

Wal-Mart has already chopped prices on holiday toys by as much as 50 percent and plans to cut prices weekly until Christmas. Starbucks busted out their Christmas cups, Christmas blends and Christmas music. And, Star 102 and KUDL in Kansas City have flipped their formats to all-Christmas all the time.

Christmas is not in October. Or November. Someone needs to tell Corporate America.

Market research firm NPD Group tried on October 9 by releasing a survey announcing that 40 percent of consumers – 10 percent more than last year – said they don't anticipate beginning their holiday shopping until after Thanksgiving.

There, it's obvious. No matter how retailers try to entice consumers to begin their holiday shopping, it won't work. I'm not the only Scrooge out there.

As our economy continues into a recession, the retail industry becomes more nervous each year because sales are lagging heading into November and December, the months that account for as much as 50 percent or more of merchants' annual profits and sales. Some are scared that the lack of a "must-have item" will cause sales to drop. Others cite the decrease in nationwide mall traffic, high gas prices or more online or bulk-buy purchases as reasons why they must begin the Christmas season when I shop for school supplies.

I don't buy any of those excuses though. Last year, national retail sales in November and December rose 4.6 percent over the same period a year earlier. The NPD survey also showed that only 5 percent of respondents said they would spend less over the next two months than they did last year, so the state of the economy is not impacting sales as much as some worry.

Therefore, retailers quit freaking out and let me enjoy my Fall season without seeing a jolly fat man (that may or may not be a pedophile) dressed in a red suit or hearing jingle bells on my way to work. Merry freaking Christmas.

About an hour into King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters the film gives the first glimpse at its larger picture. Just after submitting his record-breaking videotape to Twin Galaxies, an organization that recognizes video game high scores, Steve Wiebe comes home to find spies in his garage, investigating his equipment.

This scene epitomizes King of Kong, a documentary that starts out as about one suburbanite's quest to set a new high score at Donkey Kong, but becomes a film about conspiracy, nepotism and bureaucracy. Wiebe has more than his fair share obstacles to overcome on his way to setting the record, most of which come from Billy Mitchell, the reigning record holder and hot sauce entrepreneur. Mitchell is a legend in classic arcade world and held numerous world records, including the first perfect game in Pac Man. Donkey Kong is the only record he has left and he does everything in his power to keep it.

Throughout the film Mitchell complains about the legitimacy of submitting pre-recorded scores and then submits one of his own by tape, he works as a referee for Twin Galaxies and knows all of the judges, he has spies at competitions that relay information back to him and he goes out of his way to avoid Wiebe when he comes to Florida for a national tournament.

It's actually during these scenes that the documentary reveals its bias in Wiebe's favor. Between his bloated ego, ridiculous mullet and patriotic neckties, it's easy for director Seth Gordon to make Mitchell the bad guy — he does it to himself. But Gordon goes out of his way to make this clear by reiterating Mitchell's contradictions and using charts and graphs that exaggerate Wiebe's accomplishments and discount Mitchell's.

Doing this works and it doesn't. On one had, it gives us a clear-cut narrative with an underdog protagonist and self-indulgent, unlikable antagonist. On the other, we miss out on Mitchell's side of the story. In his world he's still a God among old school gamers, but in truth he's a man whose cultural real estate is rapidly shrinking.

Of course, it's hard not to like the path Seth Gordon chose to take the film. It is simple, it moves briskly and it's painfully funny at points, like when Mitchell likens the high score controversy to the abortion issue or when Wiebe's four-year-old son interrupts a high score attempt by pleading, "Wipe my butt! Stop playing Donkey Kong!"

Speaking of Wiebe, there hasn't been a more likable protagonist in a film in a long time. From his gapped-toothed grin to the long list of troubles that have befallen him, Wiebe is an everyman, a loveable loser who chose to master an arcade game when so much of his own life was in turmoil. There won't be a single person to see King of Kong that doesn't root for Wiebe (except for Billy Mitchell) and it's hard to watch him without being reminded of someone else that missed their chance for greatness or let bad luck wear them down.

It's too bad the film had to end on such a forced high note. Wiebe's family and joy as father are shoehorned in at the last minute in place of a proper climax and resolution. Still, kudos to Gordon for making a film that took the seemingly boring topic of old school video gaming and made it into something as engaging, heartfelt and entertaining as the finished product.

4 Pop Corn Bags (Out of a possible 5)

Lucky for me and my Saturday afternoon plans in Kansas City, stagehands for the traveling company of Avenue Q have not joined their Broadway counterparts in an ongoing strike. Where is the world supposed to turn for entertainment when Broadway goes dark and Hollywood writers create picket signs not monologue lines?

The Broadway strike started on Saturday, November 10, and has closed 27 shows, including The Lion King, The Phantom of the Opera, Mamma Mia!, Wicked and Dr Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas, which planned to open the morning the strike began. Only eight shows remain open. This strike pits the largest stagehands' union, Local One, against the League of American Theaters and Producers.

The stagehands have been working without a set contract since July, and negotiations ended in mid-October when the League of American Theaters and Producers presented their "final offer". It included a 16 percent wage increase over five years, with further increases for some workers in the lowest pay bracket, but the union wanted a contract with a 22 percent raise over five years. However, the bigger problem began when the league insisted on relaxing decades-old work rules that force them to hire more stagehands than they actually need. When that section of the contract was implemented, the workers went on strike. These new rules give producers flexibility in deciding when stagehands are needed and how many are needed.

It makes sense. Why would producers support stagehand hiring quotas that force them to hire workers even when they are not needed? Charlotte St Martin, a spokeswoman, said that the union wanted to protect "wasteful, costly and indefensible rules that are embedded like dead weights in contracts."

Strikes have always been disappointing to me. It kills a fantasy world that I turn to for entertainment. My Grandma sites the 1994 Major League Baseball strike as the downfall of the Kansas City Royals. The strike, which lasted from August 12, 1994, to April 2, 1995, led to the cancellation of 938 games overall, including the entire 1994 postseason and World Series. Sadly, Major League Baseball became the first professional sport to lose its entire postseason due to a labor dispute.

And now, the Broadway stagehands join film, television and radio writers of the Writers Guild of America, East (WGAE) and the Writers Guild of America, West (WGAW) who began a strike against American film and television producers belonging to the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP) on November 5. The last such strike was the 1988 Writers Guild of America strike; it lasted 22 weeks, costing the American entertainment industry an estimated $500 million.

The estimated cost of the Broadway shutdown thus far is $51 million, or $17 million a day. Plus, the strike threatens to drag on into the Christmas season, disappointing thousands of tourists and costing New York millions in lost revenue.

An action like this is unbelievably selfish.

Not only are stagehands disappointing Broadway enthusiasts who are unable to attend scheduled shows but their actions are affecting restaurants in the theatre district that are losing business on a usually overcrowded holiday weekend.

It's not an issue of respect, as James J. Claffey, Local One's president, claims. Broadway is a business and the producers need to make the best decisions for their productions. Just as a school doesn't hire extra cafeteria workers, Broadway doesn't have a use for auxiliary stagehands.

The two parties need to accept the proposal of Michael Bloomberg, the Mayor of New York, who offered a mediator and neutral venue for continued talks, as he did during the musicians' strike in 2003. Negotiations need to continue, but Local 1 needs to stop acting like a victim. Broadway is evolving and jobs change. Demanding jobs for unnecessary stagehands is a self-defeating measure today.

Please, let the fat lady sing again and let this strike be over.

For now, check out this Broadway survival guide if you have a trip planned:
http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/11/11/broadway-lockout-survival-guide/

I go to a church in Overland Park called Heartland Community Church. I'm part of a college group there called 61, which is named after a passage of scripture, Isaiah 61. A few weeks ago, instead of having our normal meeting in the basement of a house owned by the church, we traveled into Kansas City, near Prospect and 31st Street to visit a neighborhood ministry called the Hope Center.

We arrived and met Chris Jehle, who founded the Hope Center in 1998 out of a bible study he had started with several of the local youth.

Before we go on, I caution you not to look at this blog like a pious plug for some proud, hardheaded evangelical street mission that functions as some sort of benevolent field trip so that suburban high school kids can feel like they're changing the world. This is not that ministry. The first thing they tell potential volunteers is not to apply if they aren't willing to commit to at least a year of service.

The folks at the Hope Center approach their jobs with a quiet humility that infuses every part of their lives. They recognize that they have nothing more to offer the neighborhood other than being neighbors themselves.

In this neighborhood, nearly 100 percent of the kids are growing up in single-parent homes. Next to none of these kids know what it's like to have a father, let alone know what a stable marriage is like. Marriage and academic excellence are regarded as undesirable qualities. Those who pursue them are treated like apostates to the culture. One boy was accused of "acting white" by his father because he brought a textbook home from school.

In this neighborhood, only 50 percent of residents own their homes. According to Chris, a healthy neighborhood constitutes at least 70 percent home ownership. Unfair rental situations are common, and they are one of the primary ways people in low-income communities are economically abused. For greedy landlords, there's a lot of money to be made here.

This problem is further compounded by the fact that most of those who do own homes are elderly. They represent the final vestiges of middle-class citizens of the neighborhood. This stable facet of the community is literally dying off, and their properties are being snapped up either by landlords or developers looking to remodel and resell the homes. As an almost universal rule, neither the landlords nor developers live in the communities.

One might take pause at my mentioning of developers: Isn't it good that the houses are being fixed up? Don't we want the neighborhood to improve? Yes and no. Over time, these fix-it-up practices contribute to a trend that becomes incredibly detrimental to the poor who currently inhabit the neighborhood. This trend is called urban gentrification.

To explain, imagine a house in the neighborhood I've been talking about. A developer takes a look at the house, notices that it is only a few miles from downtown and Crown Center and realizes that if there were some nice condos there, the middle class and urban professionals would gladly move in, desiring to live closer to downtown.

In the neighborhood we visited, a normal house generally sells for $30,000. No joke, $30,000. However, when it is completely remodeled, suddenly its property value could shoot up to, let's say $60,000. If half of the homes are remodeled like this, over the course of a few years the average property value rises from $30,000 to $45,000. Sure, it's good for the neighborhood if you're thinking in terms of the actual geographic area. But it's terrible to the current neighbors. Since they can't pay the new, higher rent prices, they are forced to move elsewhere, generally to degraded suburbs. Where they end up is often worse than where they started.

When the poor move into the suburbs, their opportunities are actually more constrained than before: They don't have access to good bus routes and they don't have as many job opportunities within the same geographic radius. Furthermore, they are disoriented as they are thrown into new systems and situations.

While the American urban experience over the last seventy years has been categorized by middle class flight from the city interior and resettlement in the suburbs, The rest of the world's cities have experienced this urban gentrification. As the wealthier classes move back into the city, rising property values force the poor to move into a ring of suburbs outside the city. Paris, Sao Paulo and Calcutta are all examples of this trend. America now seems to be stitching this pattern as well.

The folks at the Hope Center are doing what they can to fight these trends. However, this is not a simple situation of "urban gentrification bad, non-urban gentrification good." Oh how I wish it were that simple. This is a bit more classic. It's a microcosm of the timeless dichotomy between the haves and the have-nots.

It's about how we choose to treat those who have no choice but to follow. Our neighbors who live in these inner-city communities don't have the resources to fight prevailing real-estate practices. How we choose to handle development in urban Kansas City in the next five to ten years will dramatically affect their futures. I cannot say whether we should abstain from moving into the city or not. I don't presume to know what's best.

But one thing is certain. In our haste to create a comfortable world for ourselves, let us not forget our neighbors who are profoundly affected by our choices.

In case you missed it, the first part of my "Midas Touch" series was a review of "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" as an homage to Brad Pitt. Part two will focus on one of many music projects in which Josh Homme has had a hand.

When I saw this band, Eagles of Death Metal, featured in an Ask.com commercial, I thought to myself, "Hmmm, that sounds like some kind of spin off of Queens of the Stone Age. I wonder if there's some kind of link between the two bands."

Sure enough, Josh Homme – founding member of desert rock bands Kyuss and Queens of the Stone Age – co-founded the Eagles of Death Metal and produced the band's first two albums. On the band's most recent album, sophomore studio album Death by Sexy, Homme sang backup vocals, played drums, bass guitar, guitar and even keyboard.

Homme's co-founder is charismatic journalist-turned-rocker Jesse Hughes, who provides the lead vocals on all tracks and lead guitar on most of them. What Homme and Hughes have created with the EODM is hard to classify, but it certainly isn't death metal. On Death by Sexy the EODM blend garage rock with blues in a way that just makes you want to boogie. Even if you listen to the album sitting down, you can't help but tap your feet and nod your head on every track.

The toe-tapping Death by Sexy induces begins with the opening track and only single from the album, "I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News)," which lays the foundation for the album – steady rock beats that provoke the need to dance. You'll even notice some "Chh-chh's" coming from the backup vocals that are reminiscent of "I Only Want You" from the band's debut album.

The second track is "I Gotta Feeling (Just Nineteen)," a sultry Stooges cover that will have you grinding on the dance floor along with the song's grinding riffs and Hughes' falsetto vocals. The next track, "Cherry Cola," follows suit, but gets a little redundant at times, although Homme offers a little QOTSA influence on lead guitar. Down the track list, "Don't Speak (I Came to Make a Bang!)" (Did I mention this band likes parentheses?), falls in line with the album's early tracks, but – as the song implies – is one of the hardest hitting tracks in the lineup.

With "I Like to Move in the Night," "Poor Doggie" and "Chase the Devil," the EODM offer contrasting blues interpretations. "I Like to Move in the Night" is more straightforward and builds energy as the song goes. "Poor Doggie" has a rock anthem feel to it. "Chase the Devil" is a fast-paced blues tune where Hughes howls convincingly that he is "gonna chase the devil tonight."

The Eagles of Death Metal do their namesake justice on "Keep Your Head Up" and "Shasta Beast," which epitomize what you might expect from a death metal version of the Eagles.

Death by Sexy isn't all pounding bass drums and guitars, though. "Solid Gold" sounds as if each band member picked up an instrument at random without tuning it and began playing and figured it out as they went, but it works. The next quirky song is an eerie fairy tale, "The Ballad of Queen Bee and Baby Duck," that apparently involves Homme (whose nickname is Baby Duck) making people dance. Homme's QOTSA flavors return on "Eagles Goth" where ghoulish chanting, moaning and groaning are emitted in the background. Death by Sexy ends nowhere near where it began with "Bag O' Miracles," a campfire spiritual-like blues rendition. Nevertheless, don't be surprised to find yourself slapping your knees.

The lyrics on Death by Sexy won't evoke much deep thought. Most involve Hughes seducing you to dance (among other things) throughout the 38:48 of music, but no matter. Considering how some songs seem to end against their will, Death by Sexy is an album that the band obviously had fun working on and it's equally fun to listen to.

You thought I was kidding when I claimed to love Disney movies at age twenty-one. I will have you know, I went to Wal-mart after that class and bought my own 40th Anniversary edition of Walt Disney's The Jungle Book and I'm damn glad I did.

The movie is a classic two dimensional, adventure animation, so it's not really important to know that Wolfgang Reitherman is the Director, but it is based on Rudyard Kipling's novel of the same title. First released in October 1967, the new platinum edition features enhanced picture and sound but the same Disney goodness you remember from your childhood.

Without invitation, my roommates wandered into the room singing the Oscar-nominated original song, "The Bare Necessities," and found a spot on the floor to watch Mowgli the man-cub make his way to the man-village with a few colorful characters he meets along the way.

Baloo, the loveable, bum-shaking bear voiced by Phil Harris, is supposed to teach Mowgli about the bare necessities of life and the true meaning of friendship according to the DVD case. While I can see how one could derive this lesson from the 78 minute movie, I only see it as a jovial Disney filled with laughter and talking animals.
As Mowgli moves towards the man-village, the king of the jungle, Shere Khan (George Sanders), is trying to make the boy his next kill. The adventure comes when Bagheera, the boy's wise panther guide (Sebastian Cabot), leaves the naive boy to find his own way. The man-cub encounters a hypnotizing snake (Sterling Holloway), dancing orangutan (Louis Prima) and lazy vultures, each with their own amusing song about life in the Indian jungle.

Even though this movie is the last animated film to receive Walt Disney's personal touch before his death in 1966, it is chronologically in the middle of the great Disney movies I remember from childhood. In ad