The Lonesome Death of the Compact Disc

There's a story I like to tell people about my first cassette purchase. I saved up every coin I could find for months, and once I had the 13 dollars I needed (with my shorts threatening to drop from the weight of the coins at any second) my dad brought me to Lechmere to purchase The Beatles Anthology 2. For as long as I can remember, I've loved packaged physical media as much as the art it contains.

That might explain why I remember the Christmas of 1995 more vividly than any other Christmas of my childhood. The Maguire family has always been particularly fussy and slow to accept technological advances (My parents bought their first DVD player in 2002), but after months of third-grader pleading I received an incredible gift: a Compact Disc Stereo. Accompanying the large box was my first official CD: Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks's legendary "2000 Year Old Man" sketch, which I memorized every word of. Not only could I finally purchase music played by lasers (the future!), but I could finally begin building what I thought would be a legitimate collection of music on a format that was new (only not at all, since the CD has been commercially available since 1982, but I didn't know that) and would last forever.

My collection began modestly, as I slowly switched out all my Beatles cassettes with digital upgrades. My interests rolled through humorous phases over the years; I jumped from The Beach Boys to "Weird Al" Yankovic to Fleetwood Mac to Aerosmith to Barenaked Ladies to R.E.M. Before high school, I would focus absolutely on one artist for months on end, and love them until there was nothing left to do but move on. Then came high school.

Understand that I've been working since I was in the fourth grade. With my father owning a tavern, money was never hard to come by as a child. I worked every weekend cleaning bathrooms and sweeping entrances, and was paid modestly for my time. This money always disappeared as soon as I could get to a record store. Once I was in high school, I began working more hours and taking on more responsibilities, which conveniently meant more funds to feed my rapidly expanding taste in music. Suddenly I wanted everything: jazz, soul, indie rock, British Invasion pop, classic hip-hop, folk, etc. I couldn't wait to spend paychecks at Newbury Comics, especially when the Wicked Cheap section always offered interesting finds at a reasonable price. As you can probably guess, I built a sizeable collection over the years, which continued well into college where I'd get free records from working at the radio station.

Somewhere along the line, a new musical revolution took place that I stubbornly refused to show up for. Once Napster opened the floodgates for free file sharing, downloads were the new way to absorb music. While I downloaded the occasional single for my own amusement, I vehemently opposed to downloading albums for the following reasons:

1) MP3s are magic little ghosts that float around in your computer (I think). Music is supposed to come from tangible devices that feature artwork and liner notes and can be easily transported.

2) Downloading is too easy. If you can have whatever you want whenever you want it, then the music no longer demands your full attention.

I was already poised to oppose the next inevitable step, MP3 portability. Almost overnight the iPod was all the rage, and the must-have gift of the year. I wanted nothing to do with it, and even looked down on my friends for buying them. I feared then (and still believe now) that convenience and instant gratification would forever compromise the way an album is meant to be absorbed. More than ever I was determined to stay the course and keep buying CDs. Christ, I must've spent thousands.

Here's about half of what all that money amounted to:


This once-majestic assortment of music is being sorted and sold today, while there are still stores left in existence who do that sort of thing. After three years of pleading from my mother to get these CDs out of her house (and why not, I haven't lived there for well over two years at this point) I buckled. In an age where any CD can be copied to a hard drive, buying CDs doesn't make sense. They just end up sitting there, gathering dust.

As I placed each disc into a sad plastic box, I felt waves of memories hit. I remembered where I purchased every single album, and specific memories, feelings, people, and conversations (good and bad) came back to me that I hadn't thought about in years. It was akin to looking through an old yearbook, right before throwing it in a fire.

As sad as I am to sell off my digital necropolis, I'm excited for the (disappointing) amount of store credit I'll receive, which will certainly go towards some terrific new blu-rays or something. And I've already begun collecting many of these same albums on vinyl, a format of which I'm convinced will remain a thriving subculture for years to come. Let's face it, a collector is always willing to keep chasing artifacts.

Okay, I can hear the eyes rolling. And, okay, maybe I'm dangerously close to maudlin sentimentality here. CDs have been my primary source of ingesting music for half of my life. Part of writing this is accepting that my persistance in buying discs over downloading is completely foolish with hindsight. But the other part is an attempt to eulogize a medium that is dying a slow, slow death in our culture. The compact disc may not have the large artwork and dynamic sound quality of vinyl records, nor do they have the immediate convenience of stealing/paying for downloads. But hey, it was a pioneer into a brave new digital age.

R.I.P. CD Collection (1995-2011)
Thanks for the good tunes.

Stale Popcorn: A Guide to the Summer 2010 Film Season

The summer movie formula is pretty simple: Release the high-priced blockbusters while school's out and make money. This in itself isn't a bad thing, plenty of high budget films provide entertainment and opportunities to present things that haven't been seen before (Star Wars, E.T., Men in Black, etc.). The problem is when spectacle and box office potential are prioritized above basic storytelling virtues; then we're paying good money to see noisy, vapid sinkholes. For the past few summers, this formula has been seemingly eating itself, with studios hanging their hats on established franchises, toys, comics, etc. Instead of new ideas and risks, audiences have mostly been subject to calculated business logic and marketing.

Bloggers and critics all over are already chiming in on this summer's theatrical lineup; many are already calling it the worst summer in recent memory, or possibly ever. They might be right. Let's do a head count:

Sequels/Prequels:

Shrek Forever After

Sex and the City 2

The Twilight Saga: Eclipse

Cats & Dogs: The Revenge of Kitty Galore

Step Up 3D

Remakes/Re-boots:

Robin Hood

Karate Kid

Piranha 3D

TV/Video Game/Comic Adaptations:

Macgruber

The Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time

Marmaduke

The A-Team

The Last Airbender

Is that worse than usual? I'm not motivated enough to investigate past summers, but it definitely feels worse. I can understand the intentions behind Ridley Scott's re-imagined Robin Hood origin story, and a 3D Piranha movie boasting record levels of fake blood might be sleazy enough to be worth seeing, but was there anybody in the world who wanted to see a Marmaduke movie? (Sub-topic: People still read "Marmaduke"?) Are the children who saw the original Cats & Dogs movie NINE years ago still looking for closure in a sequel? Do Dreamworks Animation executives really believe the world needs another Shrek movie?

Of course not. But there might be hope. Normally about this time of year I'm waiting for the depression to sink in when people pay for the usual rotten bunch of bananas in droves. However, early numbers indicate that Shrek, SATC2, and Prince of Persia are performing far below expectations, and Macgruber's performance has been an embarrassment. This could be a sign that maybe people don't want to pay high ticket prices to see recycled garbage, but let's wait until the next Twilight film is released before we say for sure.

In the meantime, here are some sequels, comic book movies, and remakes that look like solid exceptions:

Iron Man 2

The first Iron Man film succeeded with great performances and an infectious energy, and while the depth of Iron Man comic book mythos would be enough justification for a sequel, there's a genuine desire to see where this story is going next. (And no, I still haven't seen it yet.)

Toy Story 3

Pixar has proven repeatedly that their interests are in story more than box office (name another American studio that would produce a movie about a rat chef, or an elderly widower that flies his house to South America), and they've said that they would never make a sequel unless they felt it was appropriate. Seeing that Toy Story 2 is widely considered to be even better than the first film, I think it's okay to have high expectations for the third.

Jonah Hex

It's another comic book movie, sure, but Josh Brolin's the scar-struck lead, and is that a gatling gun strapped to a horse in the trailer?

Predators

"Produced by Robert Rodriguez" makes me shudder, but the premise and the cast are intriguing enough.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World

I'm honestly not wowed by the trailers so far, and the hyperactive colors and effects give me unpleasant Speed Racer flashbacks, but Michael Cera's a charmer and Edgar Wright's a great comedic director, so I'm guessing this will be fun.

Dinner for Schmucks

I'm a big fan of the original French film, The Dinner Game. It is really irritating when foreign films are remade because Americans can't read, but the premise is so entertaining that I don't mind seeing it done again, especially with Steve Carrell as the schmuck.

I'm looking forward to a few original films this summer. My highest expectations go to Inception; Christopher Nolan's pronounced fascination with the human mind should carry a thriller about international dream thieves a long distance. Get Low looks like some kind of folk western, and a cast consisting of Robert Duvall, Bill Murray, and Sissy Spacek is interesting. Splice seems worthwhile. The Killer Inside Me sounds pretty good.

Do I sound bored about this summer? I kind of am. How about you?

My Thoughts on Cell-Reliance

It's no mystery that I am slow to accept change, especially with technology. Call me unjustifiably old-fashioned. I remember being mortified when iPods carried digital music into a scary new age; sure enough album art and even the album itself has become increasingly irrelevant in our culture. The CDs I grew up with suited me perfectly fine, along with my soft spot for vinyl. The same can be said about phones, I never owned a cell phone until freshman year of college, and it was forced on me because my parents couldn't stand how frequently I was MIA. It's possible this spite-for-change trait is hereditary. My father owned a beeper until pay phones were being ripped out of sidewalks.

Lately we've had a cascade of cell phone advertisements about wireless networks and applications. It still surprises me that so much convenience and information can fit in one's pocket, but for most it's old news. So old, in fact, we're now nitpicking. Ads today boast how much better their wireless maps are, or that their phones run multiple applications at once. The need for immediate satisfaction baffles me. One ad hypothetically asks which network you would trust to upload pictures of your newborn baby on Facebook, while you're all still in the hospital. An important question, for sure.

I've been thinking about my amusing personal history with cell phones. If they were all still alive today and could form a gang, the words "ragtag" or "motley" come to mind. My first cell phone (pictured top left) was a happy blue brick with barely any color in the screen (the picture must be an update, or lie). That phone served me two years, until my parents discovered that I had circumvented the obstacle of a missing keypad shell by pushing a pen or fork into the tiny holes to dial numbers. A new phone came even faster when they found out how well I could dial while driving.

I was excited for my replacement, which was black and flipped open, though it was just about as basic as the previous model. Our time together was brief. Within a year I was in need of another; the antenna had snapped and the screen display was backwards. All the hot glue and mirrors in the world couldn't save it.

I went to a dive cell phone store in Fitchburg determined not to spend money. I was given a "temporary" second-hand flip phone until my contract allowed me to renew a few months later.

That temporary phone proved to be too endearing to let go of when I discovered just how second-hand it was. There were Lil Wayne ringtones paid for and installed. Several videos featured a laughing, drunken fat man in a hot tub. There were pictures of grandparents, children, friends eating cotton candy in front of a ferris wheel, and, um, a dead deer. Finally, several text messages implied the prior owner was a drug dealer, and I couldn't escape the feeling that I'd inherited an orphan. I decided the phone deserved a second chance at life, and that I'd call it my own until the wheels came off.

(I should note before continuing that for years I abhorred text messaging and how often it consumed people that would be otherwise engaged in conversing or living. I didn't really allow myself to text people until as recent as this past Christmas, especially since half of Los Angeles conducts business through texting and e-mail. It took three phones for this to happen.)

It's been two years, and yesterday I finally laid the ol' plow horse to rest. It had shown signs of dementia in its old age, calling numbers by itself at odd hours and often refusing to work except through speakerphone. I'm sad to see it go, but I expect it would have wanted me to move on and be happy.

My replacement is an old phone of my girlfriend's, once again nothing special. It dials numbers and sends text messages. Some day I'll probably end up with a fancy smart phone with internet access and applications, probably when all phones are smart and the new is much newer than the new we know now. Maybe by then I'll be used to them. But I'm sure I'll miss those old fashioned cellular phones.

Cocaine, Strippers, and Dave Foley

Some time back I gave up on the idea of being a "film artist," mostly from my lack of interest in the technical aspect of filmmaking and the ever-improving technologies that always escape my understanding (or attention span). Also, moving to L.A. does wonders for a film student's ego. I do continue writing and working on sets; that makes me happy enough for now. What hasn't changed is my critical approach to film and television, which is lately irrelevant when needing to make ends meet. Some of those film school ideals refuse to die within me, and I'd like to be paid to work only on great films, but money makes the world go 'round. There are of course some outright horrible, soul-crushing ideas that I'll still try to avoid being part of (Summer 2010 is offering two more movies with talking and pooping animals), but working on-set has forced me to see the industry as it really is (a business, jobs for working class people, etc.), and I've grown to appreciate good things when I see them.

Consider a music video I worked on at a strip club in Hollywood. It features a group called Black Robot covering "Cocaine;" yes, that Clapton song. When I got the call to be on set, plenty of sophomore-in-college movie snob synapses fired off in my brain:

-"A strip club? Isn't that clichéd and exploitative?"

-"Cocaine? Really? I don't even like Eric Clapton."

-"Black...Robot...?"

And then I remember that I have to pay rent, and of course accept the work. Film school ideals don't hold up in the working world.

On location, most of my morning was spent driving the strippers back and forth from set to makeup, which was both amusing and informative. Most of the girls were pleasant and down to earth, but the discussions mostly revolved around places they work at and strip classes they take ("Yeah, they usually teach you how to do a full inversion on the first day"). The crew was small and a nice bunch of fellas, and the production demands were remarkably low. What made the shoot special to me was when I heard that Dave Foley (Kids in the Hall, Newsradio) would be there as a favor to a friend of his. Even cooler, that friend is from Boston and toured with David Cross and worked on Mr. Show.

Even though I spent the better part of my day thinking of contrived ways to initiate conversation, my intent to stay professional prevented me from formally meeting Dave Foley. I kept wondering what I'd say, and what made me different from any other casual fan saying something, and realized there was nothing. I did keep a curious eye on him, still flabbergasted that he'd show up in an unknown band's music video. I think I was looking for signs of him looking off in the distance and sighing, or aggravation after several hours spent in a dive bar with hot lights. Instead, he was friendly and easygoing. He made jokes frequently and smiled when giving people responses. He took direction and was game for whatever the director threw at him. In between setups, he would tell people stories. If you didn't know who he was, you wouldn't know he was famous.

I can hear the sarcastic guffaws: "This is where Dave Foley's career is?" This was a low-budget shoot, and whatever he was paid to be there, I promise it wasn't much and was simply a favor to his friend. But I found it charming how genuine he was, and how he seemingly didn't feel the video was beneath him. It makes me feel lousy for even having those sarcastic thoughts when offered the job. I could learn a thing or two from Mr. Foley.

Here's the video, complete with boyish Foley charm... and somewhat SFW strippers:

Chicken Soup for the Demented Soul

I remember being a kid and seeing William Castle's The Tingler after midnight on cable. A few things vaguely stood out in my mind: a creature pulled by fishing line; the sight of blood red in an otherwise black-and-white film; a character literally being scared to death. This was my first "real" exposure to Vincent Price beyond his guest appearance on "The Muppet Show," his brief role in Edward Scissorhands, and being the laughing man from "Thriller." Years later I knew I had a fond admiration for Price, but with only faint or limited reasons behind it. Why? I always assumed that these limited impressions and memories served as pieces to a bigger picture that I enjoyed; I don't think an episode of "The Muppet Show" would bother re-inventing a guest star. A good idea would've been to check out more of his movies.

And there was Vincent Price, forever stored on my cinematic to-do list, somewhere after "see more Bergman and Lean films," plus whatever got thrown onto the pile over time.

I read the AV Club often and am fond of their features; one of them called "Gateways to Geekery." The idea is to discuss icons, artists, publications, or genres of geek cult that people could shun you for not knowing anything about (Monty Python, EC Comics, Westerns, etc.) and the "possible gateway" that could get you started (plus what to avoid unless you're a true fan). An article popped up one day for Vincent Price, and caught my immediate interest.

His early career could be described as no less than normal for the time period. I watched some of these films. He's a main character in Laura, an above-average film noir from Otto Preminger; and he plays the title character in Sam Fuller's The Baron of Arizona with a charming empathy that struggles to overcome Fuller's typically heavy-handed writing and directing. Obviously these roles did not connect the dots with my childhood impressions, and are not even close to what people remember as the Price persona. According to that AV Club article, the "possible gateway" to Vincent Price is, no surprise, The Tingler.

The author went on to provide a laundry list of films to check out after The Tingler, and I was surprised to discover that I was more familiar with Price than I'd realized. He worked with Roger Corman on a few Edgar Allen Poe adaptations, some of which I'd seen in an eighth grade reading class; and I had forgotten about seeing the first film he worked on with Castle, House on Haunted Hill, when I was a lot younger. How could I have forgotten that skeleton rising from a vat of acid?

The picture was becoming more complete, I was discovering that the limited impression of Price that I had wasn't so limited, and that I was actually somewhat well-versed in his brand of oogly-moogly mania. After revisiting both The Tingler and House on Haunted Hill as an adult and fully appreciating both Price's hammy charm and Castle's spooky good-time gimmicks, I decided to approach a few more films that had caught my eye.

The later portion of Price's career is marked by a few revenge films made before his declining health. The most famous title is probably The Abominable Dr. Phibes, with its equally enjoyable sequel Dr. Phibes Rises Again, in which Price plays the mad title character set on avenging his wife's death. Yes, vigilante/revenge films are inherently dumb. Especially now, these films are steeped in heavy plotting, and usually the main character's wife/son/daughter has been so wronged by the justice system/drug cartel/police/government that the audience feels a vicarious joy in the character's journey for personal justice. Conveniently, these films feature stylish deaths, and usually a happy ending. Money!

The difference with the Phibes films is that the main character's driving motivation, his wife's death, really isn't so horrific. She dies during an operation (or at the hands of incomptetent doctors, depending on your perspective), but no evidence suggests that the death was malicious in any way. At worst, it's an unfortunate accident. Amusingly we see none of this; instead we have Price stealing scenes with ham-fisted monologues that simultaneously explain his motives and earn sympathy from the audience. Even with the complicated "seven plagues of Egypt" murders that Phibes commits with incredible ease, it isn't until hindsight that we realize we've sided with and cheered for a lunatic. The same could be said for the sequel, which takes itself even less seriously as Phibes goes to Egypt to give his dead wife immortality. Makes sense, that's the first place I'd think of.

Price alone carries these films. After a while, one can forget the character can't speak (due to a car accident that leaves his mouth sealed shut) from the precise throat movements and gestures to the passion in Price's eyes with each line mourning his dear "Vic-toooooria." There's a lot to be said about the set designs and stylish murdering (I'm especially fond of a misleading death that involves poisonous snakes), but only Price's expressive and energetic performances turn these inherently dumb films into great ones.

The best of the Price revenge films is Theater of Blood, which gives Price the chance to indulge in Shakespearean monologues while still playing a murderer. The premise is similar, but substitute a dead wife for career-ending notices, and doctors for theater critics. Instead of Egyptian plagues, the critics die according to Shakespeare tragedies. This film boasts a screenplay of astonishing wit and style, but it would still be nothing without Price in the lead.

Catch up on Vincent Price; not only is he a joy to watch, his personality alone seems to create a bizarre cinematic universe that combines an infectious humor and energy with a snickering blend of blood and ghouls. His best films aren't so-bad-they're-great (see Troll 2), nor are they exemplary classic horror. He's one of the few actors where the fact that he stars in it is pretty indicative of what kind of film it is. Recently I tried explaining to a friend of mine what makes Price so special. The best I could come up with is that he reminds me of the charm of a homemade haunted house.

I'll stand by that.

UPDATE: I've just found Dr. Phibes Rises Again streaming for free on Hulu, along with House on Haunted Hill. Enjoy!