Movies

Movies and Self-censorship

This article could possibly fit as well under politics as it does movies; sometimes the two do overlap.

The point is that Congress is, once again, considering censorship, most specifically regarding TV, although such things have a way of creeping from one media to another eventually, which would certainly include movies, and beyond that probably popular music (especially rap), computer games, and worst of all--especially in a political sense--the Internet.

Theoretically--at least theoretical to most people, especially Congress, who seems to have a problem with the limitations imposed upon them by we the people in the Constitution, specifically the Bill of Rights--censorship, stated in the First Amendment as "Congress shall make no law…abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press," the said limitation on Congress, meaning effectively censorship, is only applicable to the government itself.  This is a sort of catch that a lot of people do not understand, meaning that other agencies or entities can, in fact, violate certain restrictions put upon the government, which is generally covered by a written and enforceable agreement generally referred to as a contract.  That means that a corporation, as a non-government agency, for instance, can get an employee to agree to searches or other violations that, theoretically, the government should not be able to perform, such as under the Fourth Amendment, an example being drug testing.  Forget that the government does that anyway every time they drug test school athletes or others because a public school is a government institution.  That's why I keep saying theoretically…as opposed to real-life practice.

The whole practice of movie ratings (which are actually called "certification" so as not to be confused with critics' rating) was a concession made by the industry because they were told in no uncertain language that if they didn't do it, Congress would, which, as I've tried to explain to anyone who is at all familiar with the content and intention of the Constitution, they, theoretically, cannot do anyway, the First Amendment being quite unambiguous about the subject of "shall make no law."

The whole "war on drugs," for instance, was unconstitutional from day one.  That was originally made obvious with the Eighteenth Amendment, or Prohibition, inasmuch as it took an amendment, not a law passed by Congress alone, to prohibit the substance of alcohol.  And why did it take an amendment?  Because there is nowhere in the Constitution any clause granting the feds the right to outlaw alcohol.  As such, it was covered by the Tenth Amendment--and still is--meaning only a state or lower government in a state can outlaw it, as with prostitution, gambling and many other so-called vices.  The feds had no constitutional authority, and at that time, when the amendment was passed, people were still enough aware of constitutional matters that they did it by amendment, not a congressional law alone.  But that is quite another story in itself, which I cover in Part One of by Blog (http://wm-monje.com/blognew/main.php?file=intro.htm ), which reads more like a book than this, Part Two of my Blog.

The whole history of movies has been a contest, not between censorship and no censorship, but between censorship and self-censorship.  It actually started on 1909, or shortly before that, specifically Christmas Eve of 1908, or what is generally considered thirteen years after the birth of cinema.  It started with a single man who thought movies were sinful and in conflict with what would probably be called "family values" today, but at the time, asserted that "the medium degraded the morals of the community."  That was the mayor of New York at the time, George McClennan, who (as I see it) foreshadowed a long line of fascist in that position, such as Rudolph Giuliani, the official art critic (in the style of Hitler and Stalin) of the Brooklyn Museum of Art who threatened to cut their funds because a piece offended him and some of his voters.  In the case of McClennan, he revoked theatre licenses on Christmas Eve of 1908.  In 1909, the theatre owners, distributors and others with an interest founded The Nation Board of Review of Motion Pictures.

That's the official story and name giving a bit of a clue what they were all about.  Basically, they were the good guys, saving the movie industry from being outlawed in New York City and probably, eventually, elsewhere.  What most historical notes, including Wikipedia (which I find quite enlightening most of the time) fail to mention is that is not the whole story.  First of all, The National Board of Review was not its first name.  For a short while it was called The National Board of Censorship.  It's primary duty, serving the industry without actually being a part of it, was to endorse a code, otherwise referred to as "permissible guidelines."  "Endorse" is not necessarily the right word, however, because without its approval, there became an element of enforcement, meaning if the producers and distributors wanted to sell the movie to the general public, it needed the Board of Review's seal of approval.

It's basic code (or "guidelines") was rather simple and applied mostly to violence and crime, with sex and nasty words also controlled, but, ironically, more so than violence and crime, even though there were more rules applied to violence and crime.  Sex, nudity and nasty words (with the advent of talkies) just didn't happen; although violence was the most controlled by the number of guidelines, it was also the most liberal part of the code, meaning considerable violence, in all its everyday form, was allowed, like shooting people and beating them up, were pretty much okay because you really can't portray the human condition without violence and crime (I would argue you can't leave out sex, nudity and cuss words either, which might ask some serious questions as to how we see ourselves in the context of good and bad when exposing genteel people and little kids to it).  What was not pretty much okay was any form of nudity, like a bare breast, which would have been unheard of in its early days, meaning up to the later sixties.  Bad words were another target of censorship.  The censors of the day even wanted to take "I don’t give a damn" from Gone With The Wind, which, left in, actually shocked audiences, at least as compared to the war taking place around them.  (That, of course, again asks the question of how do we see ourselves in the context of good and bad or, to put it another way, are we really less shocked and offended by burning a city to the ground than saying "damn"?)

Beyond this first attempt at self-censorship were two more segments of society that wanted a say in what could and could not be depicted: they were, essentially, religious or moral groups, particularly the Catholic Church (although some Protestant Churches fully banned movies in general to their congregation) and the government.  First there was the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association of America, also called the Hays Code after its first person in charge, which led to what was simply called The Production Code, originating in 1930 and made enforceable, through voluntary adherence, in 1934, which loosed up in the fifties, and lasted until 1967 when producers simply said, "screw it"…or words to that effect.  In 1968 they began movie ratings under the Motion Picture Association of America--"G" or "PG" or "R" and so on.

The government, incidentally, allowed violence in movies as long as it depicted American soldiers and cops in a good light while doing their job in the line of duty.  The other exception was the terrible treatment of our soldiers by any and all enemies of American, particularly the Japanese, usually referred to as "Japs" at the time.

The funny thing is that I began writing this as a result of some conservative commentator showing great hope for censorship of network TV, like big fines for cuss words and bare tits, which tended to remind me of the old Hays days, most specifically the rule that "crime cannot pay," meaning no one--ever--was allowed to get away with a crime in a movie.  That, in turn, reminded me of the movie The Getaway, 1972, with Steve McQueen.  With all due respect to a very good remake with Alec Baldwin, it was the original that should always be the classic--not just because it was an excellent movie, but because, as far as I can recall, it was the first movie ever where the criminals got away with the loot.  That was, if nothing else, a momentous moment in film history.  It may not have been the first (I really don't know), but it was in that respect, without a doubt, the most outstanding rule-breaking movie of its day clearly defining the end of a self-imposed code.

The problem, of course, is one of self-censorship.  So far the government itself has been pretty good about not exercising all-out censorship.  They do make threats, however, frequently on behalf of some other interest, such as a religious group that takes offense with a bare boob.  And, unless you haven't noticed, speaking of "crime cannot pay" (that's as opposes to "does not"), the latest thing is smoking cannot happen without severe consequences, usually to the bad guy.  That made me think of the not so great movie xXx where the bad guy, holding a cigarette, is hit by a heat-seeking missile, which is, I'd say, really pushing the concept that it is going to kill you sooner or later (although a pretty good gag).  Granted, a lot of people don't smoke anymore, and it may be logical to see fewer characters in movies smoking than before…but why the hell do they have to be the bad guys or drop dead from it?  It's the Hays Code all over again, imposed but by agreement.  It is, literally, the "crime cannot pay" concept all over again.  There are organizations that want smoking banned in the movies all together, and if not, it must be put in a bad light or the character must pay the penalty in the old "crime cannot pay" sort of way.  That's a fact, not just suppositional.  In other words, if in the remake of The Getaway Alec Baldwin, who could get away with armed robbery, kill a bunch of guys if they were bad (whether they smoked or not), but if he smoked, even being the good guy, so to speak, he'd have to die of lung cancer or something.  Give me a fucking break.

I think I'll go watch an old Bogart movie now.

Sophocles' Farting-dog Routine

I don't usually make a practice of critiquing a single movie.  I much prefer to reference several movies, make comparisons, and, hopefully, make a point.  On this occasion, however, I'll have to make an exception because I was particularly disappointed in what could have, should have been a perfectly good movie, but was "fixed" or "doctored," probably by a committee, possibly called "script doctors," which further implies it was broken or just plain "sick" to start with, but, ironically, may have been a work of genius by the single original author (except we don't call script writers "authors").  The sad part is it was not a bad movie in many respects.  The acting was okay, the directing adequate, the overall production values on par with a first rate movie, generally speaking, much of the dialogue was actually quite well written, occasionally even profound, and the plot itself was a nearly perfect tragedy (referring back to my last commentary and Aristotle's book Poetics).

The problem was that they billed it as a comedy.  The greater problem being that it wasn't funny.  It was tragic.

The name of the movie is Little Black Book, staring Brittany Murphy as Stacy, the protagonist, Holly Hunter as Barb, the antagonist, and some other pretty good actors, including Kathy Bates who always perfects her characters, as best she can, regardless of the script itself and all the "doctoring" it ends up with.  The only really funny routine, including dialogue, that seems to spring spontaneously from the characters (as opposed to something contrived and inserted) was during an examination by a Doctor Rachel Keyes, a gynecologist played by Rashida Jones, which was performed on Stacy, who thought the doctor was a podiatrist, and is only pretending to be a patient herself.  An example:

Dr. Rachel Keyes:  "Oh, would you take a look at that cervix, Nurse Kisilevsky. Textbook. I'm not the first person who's told you that, I'm sure."

Stacy:  "Can't hear it enough!"

So, here's the problem as I see it:  The movie, Little Black Book, with Holly Hunter, accent and all, be it irrepressible or irremovable (but fine actress anyway), is playing the part of a friend, but one as villainous as Iago in Othello.  It fact, the story is quite similar in many respects, which, of course, makes it a perfect tragedy, at least in plot and even character…and that pretty much is the whole of what makes tragedy tragedy.  In other words, it was, in fact, scripted as a perfect tragedy by just about anyone's standards, including Aristotle's.  The ending, at least the climax, which could only be tragic, complete with those emotions of fear and pity, actually attained that point.  The fear and pity, as mentioned in a previous commentary, being emotions experienced by the audience, specifically fear it could happen to them, and pity for the character to whom it did happen. 

The great fault, as I see it, considering my own peculiar sensitivities to such things, was when they tacked on what was one of the most contrived and silliest Hollywood endings I've ever had to witness.  (You have to see it to understand, and I mention it only because we're all so used to such Hollywood endings that it might otherwise go unnoticed.)  I'm talking about the resolution here, not the climax.  The climax was, without a doubt, pure tragedy.  But the big thing, as we're discussing, was the obvious lack of any spontaneous comedy relief that could have developed naturally along the way, meaning from the characters themselves.  I suspect someone noticed it was lacking comedy relief…especially after billing it as comedy, which it was not.  So they contrived a gag and worked it in.  It's actually a great gag.  By that, I mean it would get a laugh in any show--comedy, tragedy, melodrama, or whatever.  And what is that?  A dog who farted.

See what I mean?  Put a farting dog in anything at all, and it will get a laugh.  Just say it--"farting dog"--and it will get a laugh.  It would get a laugh in Hamlet or Long Day's Journey Into Night or even Oedipus Rex.  Think about it.  I like to think that had Sophocles used it in Oedipus Rex, Aristotle would have explained and even expounded upon how Sophocles necessarily had to use it because, to Aristotle, all he had to go on was talking about what all those contemporaneous, great playwrights did so he could make himself the expert on the subject by explaining why it was all written as it was, even though he never wrote a play himself.  It would have put comedy relief into the mix long before it was ever a consideration.  Aristotle would have listed the elements of a play as "plot, characterization, diction, thought, spectacle, the chorus, and comedy relief as exemplified by Sophocles' famous farting-dog routine."

Art, Music, Movies, Culture and the Emotion of Aesthetics

As an opening comment, I should probably remind the reader that I post when the spirit moves me, but if not frequent, at least, for the most part, at some length.  It there's an expectation of more frequent, up-to-date commentary that I may seem to fail, I would suggest that you take Part One of this blog from the top, found on my homepage, http://wm-monje.com/ .  It is actually background material for all that follows.  Other than that, I am presently well into another novel and have been otherwise occupied.  And beyond that, as far as politics are concerned, I am simply dismayed and disgusted, filled with disbelief that the American public continues to put up with lies and excuses and no concept of responsibility and accountability in high places.  It becomes increasingly difficult to comment on unfolding events when a great share of one's countrymen are gleefully awaiting the end of the world as the ultimate solution, and content in the fact it would probably take a madman to make it happen, and that may be why we elected him; while at the same time the rest of the country doesn't seem to much care or, if they do, doesn't have a clue of what to do or even say about it. 

Having said that, I'd rather talk about movies…but it might get political too.

When I was very young I did a personal study of creative writing.  I've never taken a course in it or much of anything else, for that matter, although I did read text books on various subjects, much of which led from my look into that study of creative writing.  It led to reading a number of pieces of classic literature, mostly because I came across numerous mentions of certain particular classics in narrative and drama that seemed to be universally recommended as outstanding examples of style, or the handling of plot, or characterization or other unique virtues, especially innovation, meaning the first in what later got its own label, such as existentialism, theatre of the absurd, or stream of consciousness--labels, more often than not, created by critics and other "experts in the field," not the authors themselves.

The study of creative writing also tends to lead to totally other subject matter, like psychology, behaviorism, history, philosophy, and, of course, proper English usage, and other not particularly agreed upon subject matter, meaning much of it remains debatable.  At some point, maybe around sixty-eight years later,  that tends to end up as what might have been a pretty much well rounded college education, but without the absolute opinion of a professor imposed upon it, particularly since most of it remains debatable.  As for creative writing itself, what I did try to avoid, having briefly looked into it, were books on formula writing:  How to Write Romance; How to Write Science Fiction; How to Write Westerns; How to Write Mysteries…and so on.  Those books I came to consider a destructive force, although I never did read more than a chapter or two of one or two books, despite the list above, which actually goes on and on.  As with any methodology, it puts an end to innovation, original thought, and individuality…sort of like joining an organized political party or religion.  "It is simply wrong to think outside this box.  This method worked for me and a bunch of other people, so it is best for you too," sort of thinking.  It is all conservatism at its worst extreme because it does not allow any changes or innovation, only variations on the same old thing.  Considering that, it is easy to see why it takes a conservative to deny evolution; evolution represents change, and they're against it.  Liberals aren't much better, mostly because they got a lot of what they wanted, and they don't want any change either…which tends to make them conservative too, wouldn't you say?

Getting back to books recommended frequently in most texts on creative writing, Aristotle's Poetics is probably on the top of the list.  I read if first at around the age of twelve or thirteen, a few times since, the last about ten years ago.  Then I tend to forget most of it except for a few basic concepts which are okay and worth remembering, and seem to work…in most cases, even though it too remains debatable.

One of the problems with Poetics, however, is all that got lost in the translation, plus all that has happened to theatre since then, including, if not especially, movies.  By lost in translation I do not mean just the original translation from ancient Greek into English, but for ancient English into contemporary English.  For instance: In the original, Aristotle outlined what could be called the elements of drama (being considered poetry at the time).  As listed they are: plot; characters; diction; thought; spectacle; and chorus, although the list is more often than not abbreviated, possibly because certain elements mentioned are disputable or, seemingly, no long applicable.

The first word there that seems to have been lost in an update of translation, I would say, is "diction," which was the first and original translation into English.  More recently, in an obvious attempt to bring it up to date, it has been replaced with "dialogue," which seems reasonable at first glance.  But having been there, meaning I have sat in on rehearsals of my own "dialogue," and even though it may have been "spoken" (I use "spoken" temporarily) as written, it did not say what was intended, which can tend to change every other element in the whole thing as Aristotle presented those elements, including plot, especially character, but also "thought," which is the most controversial term in contemporary meaning, as far as I can determine, and which I'll get to…probably.  In my opinion the proper updated interpretation ought to be "delivery."  All it takes is the emphasis on the wrong word in a line, and the whole of it is destroyed.  Because of that, I try to sneak in an underline (or with a word processor, italics), which should indicate its emphasis or what is called the "operative word."  Unfortunately such devices, as a writer, tend to piss off both actors and directors.  Directors actually go so far as to cross out stage directions--even though it's doubtful they read them--and write their own.  Dialogue, however, is the sole domain of the author.  We're talking about stage here, not movies, which is totally different; the author, generally referred to as a script writer, is the last consulted on changes in the script, if consulted at all.  That compromise, however, is achieved by large sums of money, meaning the script, unlike a stage play, is bought outright, the basic fee being three percent of the budget, which considering the cost of production, is considerable.  Anyway, inasmuch as Aristotle described "diction" as "the way a word is spoken," I'd say it ought to be translated as delivery.

The next most important element (and the list is in a descending order of importance) is "thought," nowadays interchangeable with "theme."  It is the least discussed and defined term, even by Aristotle himself, despite its forth place in importance.  I would say the question is to whom the word though is implied.  As "theme" it would seem to originate with the author, but again, in some elaboration, Aristotle also refers to "response," which to me applies the element of "thought" to the audience, as in the author thinking to himself, "Wow, maybe I can make them think…have a damn thought or something."  But maybe that's wishful thinking.  Then, it should be reminded, that in Hollywood circles, the word "message" is forbidden…which is what Western Union is for, as the cliché expression goes.  They will tell you it is all about entertainment, which it damn well ought to be, but ego trips and making money are rarely mentioned when expressing the virtues and rewards of movie making.

The next element is "spectacle," at least in Aristotle's list of elements.  The last element is the "chorus," even though Aristotle says spectacle is the least important, at least in tragedy.  Believe it or not, Aristotle's Poetics is still mandatory reading for a university course on movie making, at least at UCLA, having read at least one professor's book on the subject.  Oddly enough, when you stop to think about the elements of your basic Hollywood movie, Hollywood has had a tendency to drop "spectacle" and "chorus" from the original list--but not in practice, just in theory.  One might see some rationale behind the chorus not being an essential element (although I strongly disagree), but the idea that spectacle has nothing to do with movies is just plain funny. 

In Aristotle's original list of elements, plot comes first, but his further elaboration on that element defines it as a demand for "probability and necessity," meaning that every event or line of dialogue must plausibly or necessarily lead to whatever follows.  I just cannot imagine him saying, while exemplifying the work of Sophocles, "And that event plausibly, if not necessarily, leads to a car chase and/or something blowing up."  In a whole bunch of movies nowadays I would say spectacle has not only not been dropped from the list but has actually replaced plot as the first and foremost element.

Plausibility, of course, can lead to just about anything at all, including Disney's definition of "the plausible impossible," which is more common than we may have been aware.  An example I used earlier depicts a cartoon character getting run over by a steamroller and then pumping himself back up with a bicycle pump…plausible, but impossible--but being plausible makes it acceptable in a long stretch of suspending reality, the real trick to appreciating any drama or even narrative.  Nowadays we accept, without a blink, everything from warp drive to vampires who scurry up walls and hide out plastered to the ceiling to Asian sword fights that totally defy the law of gravity.  All we ask is that it is all done with art and class and an acceptable degree of plausibility that, ideally, forwards the plot as element number one in drama demands.

My main theme here, however, is "the chorus" as it lives still in movies.  Everything else, so far, is just background leading up to it.  If still used, as it was established in Poetics, the term has generally been changed to "music," probably more appropriate than "chorus."  As an actual chorus you could claim that of any movie that had a narration, particularly outside observers and commentators, like the Doo-wop street singers in Little House of Horrors, or the three old guys in Do the Right Thing, or even the old cowboy at the counter in the bowling alley in The Big Lebowski.  Other than that, Woody Allen's Mighty Aphrodite is the only real Grecian type Greek course I can think of.  The music in all movies, of course, and how it is delivered or worked in is still, in my mind, a Greek chorus.  In most of Woody Allen's movies it is generally Cole Porter or Gershwin or similar others, with a distinctly Manhattan flavor and atmosphere, which is a relevant element, dramatically speaking.  The same is true of nearly all movies, even when it's a piece being played on a character's radio in the background.  It has something to say about the story and the character, or it wouldn't be there. 

One of the cheapest tricks, as opposed to an element of drama, is what is frequently done with the closing credits in the way of music, most specifically throwing in a rock, or more recently, rap song, totally out of character as regards all that went into the movie itself as a complete and polished work of drama, and done so on the hunch, not as an artistic elaboration, that it will pull in a younger generation, which is doubtful, especially since, one would assume, they've just watched the whole thing and are as confused by the choice and nature of closing-title songs as the rest of the audience is.  That's one of those things where the movies as a put-together-by-a-committee aspect--not to be confused with artistic collaboration--becomes a major drawback to the finished product.  On the other hand, a good example of how it ought to be done is the choice of closing-title music played at the end of a Sopranos episode, which varies considerably, but always works to rap up that particular episode.

Having lived my life as an artist before all else, I am left believing that the only real salvation for civilization lies in the arts, even before science.  With that consideration goes belief that movies are, in fact, the ultimate art, at least potentially, if for no other reason they employed all the arts.  I cannot think of an art that has not found its place in the greater art of movie making.  Beyond that, I believe that because of the popularity of movies as an art form, it holds the best position in all of the media to get a message across and appeal to the better part of humanity.  There are good arguments that certain forms of entertainment, even movies especially, degrade the nature of man, but at the same time, considering the high value of art alone, I would argue that it raises everyone, at least potentially, to a higher emotional state of consciousness, specifically aesthetics.

In its simplest definition, aesthetics is a sense of beauty.  Granted, a sense of beauty varies considerably from person to person.  But ultimately it matters little whether one sees beauty in a violin virtuoso or a young man in baggy pants improvising rap--the reaction is the same because someone is moved to sense beauty, and that is a worthy emotion, and can only elevate the individual.  Given enough variety, and choices (which some people would deny us, even going so far as to legislate those choices), I would argue that the generation of aesthetics is a noble pursuit, and can and should elevate virtually the whole of any society and its culture.  Culture cannot be legislated, which generally means an attempt to preserve or bring back some era some see as idyllic, when the whole idea of culture itself is its growth and progression from one generation to another.

It hasn't just been rappers, and before them rock and roll (already being referenced as "classic"), but it was the Beatles or Elvis Presley before them; jazz musicians before them, who were literally blamed by the Federal Bureau of Narcotics for the great threat to our way of life caused by reefer madness; and before that, ragtime (now only heard on classical music stations)…and so on.  In fact, Mozart's operas were considered to be politically rabblerousing, and Beethoven, Liszt, and Paganini were accused of being too sensual because young women were know to swoon from their music, which might actually mean they had an orgasm; "So," someone has to ask, "just how nasty can it get?"

Getting back to the emotion of aesthetics and how it might vary from person to person, consider, for instance, the motorcycle used in Easy Rider.  It might be a thing of beauty to some, frightful and ugly to others.  The motorcycle should have represented freedom in the land of the free, but as a line in the movie stated:  "They'll talk to ya and talk to ya and talk to ya about individual freedom.  But they see a free individual, it's gonna scare 'em."  To some they might see the motorcycle as a steed, and the man on it a knight on a quest.  What the quest is doesn't matter.  The same could be said of martial arts as portrayed so much in movies nowadays: to some a flying kick is a thing of grace and beauty, equal to any movement by the most artful ballerina…but not all share that particular sense of beauty.  Nevertheless, where one feels a sense of beauty, it keeps them on a path through life that is actually their self-determined purpose in life.  Where one senses beauty, one is aware of their purpose in life…even if that purpose may have been put aside by the person or put down from outside forces. 

What I mean by that is that art (in this case just discussing movies) can stir in a person those things that person wanted to do with their life, their purpose, whether that purpose has been suppressed or not.  Take for instance a movie about pioneers…the whole covered wagon thing.  If it's done right, every aspect of it generates a sense of beauty in the whole aspect of pioneering.  I've seen movies, in fact, where one of the strongest impacts on that sense of beauty has been the musical score.  Music just can't be underestimated as a powerful element in movies, which means its ability to get to that particular emotion of aesthetics in an individual.  Of course, pioneering doesn't have to be covered wagons, thus disregarded, because the end of covered wagons doesn't mean the end of pioneering.  It could be Alaska, the South Pole, on the sea or under it, and it could most certainly mean in space--the first colony or the next ship out to another world.  The point is simply that aesthetics stir up the emotions connected to what was or still is someone's real purpose in life, and that is a positive motivation, not just for them but for the whole culture and the future of mankind.  I may seem to be overrating the powers of art upon a culture and its people, but don't forget I've already said I do believe that art is the generating force for what we like to call culture and civilization itself.  I cannot give that credit to the politicians and the war mongers who either hold us down in a fixed place or destroy what we've already created just because their names went down in history books.  That's not my idea of a contribution to civilization.

Aesthetics necessarily move the human spirit.  Regardless of all the differences in how people react, movies, at their best, raise the human spirit to the high emotion of aesthetics-- and aesthetics move the human spirit to act on its life's purpose.  At the very least, there is a vicarious moment of adventure and triumph, or a chance to laugh at one's own foibles, or, in tragedy--and even comedy--a release of grief.  At any rate, I figure, people are better off for the whole of it.

Movie Stars And Kids Who Keep Growing Up On Screen

My oldest kid is forty-seven, so when I call a middle-aged movie star a kid, it's with good reason.  Mostly, a lot of current actors in their forties, even older, I simply remember as the new faces on screen or TV, or what I called at the time, and still think of as now, the kids.  Also, for some strange reason, I even remember a bunch of older actors as kids, like Jon Voight, for instance, that promising young actor nominated for best actor in Midnight Cowboy, thirty-six years ago, now playing older, character parts to perfection, even though that kid is only two years younger than I am.  On the other hand, Harrison Ford was actually thirty-one when he played a teenager in American Graffiti, so I can consider myself deceived, considering that kid is only five years younger than I am.  The big shock, however, was finding out that Julie Harris, who played the twelve-year old Frankie in the play and, two years later, the movie The Member of the Wedding (in 1952--nominated for best actress), was twenty-seven when she made the movie, considerably older than I am.  (I've also had the honor of seeing her perform live on stage in The Belle of Amherst, a one woman, full-length play about the life of Emily Dickinson.)  Maybe I just forget I was a kid once too. 

Then there's James Dean, eternally young, whose picture hangs over my computer.  You really had to be part of that generation to understand that whole phenomenon fully.  Most of all I remember a high degree of denial--meaning no one wanted to believe it--a bit, perhaps, like Elvis, except it never got that silly.  The only thing comparable I can think of is what would have happened if Johnny Depp had been lost right after doing Benny and Joon, What's Eating Wilbert Grape, and Ed Wood--after capturing the hearts of a whole generation.  Maybe it wouldn't have been the same, but I would have put his picture up next to James Dean above my computer…might anyway.  As it is with Johnny Depp, who's now one of many good-looking movie stars with enough talent to last a lifetime, I can only imagine what Dean would be doing today at the age of seventy-four or what he would have done over a full lifetime. 

The point is that there are a lot of pretty (gender not specific), young and glamorous, brand new movie stars out there, always floating like a bubble to the top, but the real test of real talent is time…and bubbles don't hold up well over time.  One of the problems, looking back over a good number of years, seems to be the search for good-looking actors and actresses--to put it simply--and particularly actresses…as if that were the first and maybe only consideration.  Fortunately, the ones who do hold up over time are not just good looking, but they also have the talent to back it up.  A couple of pretty and glamorous kids I can think of are Denzel Washington and Julia Roberts.  They are here to stay and have earned it.  There are many, thankfully, but I mention them only as examples, which means a genuine talent that exceeds their good looks, publicity, popularity, and glamour.  I've also noticed that good looks are not quite the prerequisite they used to be for movie stars…a move in the right direction…slowly, but a move nevertheless.

Probably my most basic problem is that I watch a lot of movies--including incredibly bad ones, which, in their fashion, can be quite enlightening as a sort of perverted study in how not to do something; and, on the other hand, most of my work in the business has been on stage (from set designer to playwright), working with live acting, where pretty doesn't count as much as real, studied talent.  What that means is I know there are some extraordinary actors and actresses out there, doing "showcase" little theatre for Equity minimum or even nothing at all, while holding a job as a waiter or receptionist to survive.  And then I watch what was probably a multimillion-dollar movie and see a bunch of pretty and young kids--who knew the right people but not how to deliver a line in character--starring in a second rate movie, with the only real talent exhibited being supplied by otherwise unemployed character actors who come and go in the background and, every chance they get, stealing a scene or two.  I just find that disturbing, especially when I personally know any number of really talented, but unemployed, actors and actresses who could have brought at least a little depth to those otherwise shallow characters in an overall shoddy movie…maybe even stealing back a scene or two from all those otherwise unemployed but professional character actors who come and go in the background.  Ever notice how the villain, if he's a grownup, is usually the best actor?

I really do try to avoid mentioning by name movies that turned my stomach, but there's one in particular, a 1989 release called Shag.  First of all, when the writers are listed alphabetically, we're talking about a committee, not a creative collaboration.  And it's not that I don't support young actors, which I fully do, also recognizing that everyone has to start somewhere.  But another Platoon, which pretty much introduced Johnny Depp, Charlie Sheen and Forest Whitaker, among others, it was not.  At first glance at the names in the cast, one might think someone rounded up every famous actor's kid and put him or her in the movie…even if a couple of famous last names weren't even related.  Tyrone Power was the grandson of his famous namesake, and the actress named Gish was the granddaughter of a Lillian Gish…but not the Lillian Gish.  It looked right at home in the credits, however.  The young actress may well make it from there on her own--and more power to her--but I can't help but suspect she got the part because of her last name…as did several others.  Bridget Fonda, for instance, did take it from there and is living up to both her name and her talents.  As I said, everyone has to start somewhere…even if the movie did turn my stomach.

Then there's the matter of the real kids--not the one's who look twelve-year-olds at twenty-seven or teenagers at thirty-one--but kids young enough to actually look their age…as in short with high-pitched voices and such…like real ten-year-olds.  But then, sooner or later, you're going to start asking the question:  Whatever happened to…?

Frankly, I was delighted when Tatum O'Neal won the Oscar.  I know a lot of people didn't think it should have gone to a kid on her first movie…and it's a good argument.  I just thought the movie was terrific and so was she.  One has to wonder, however, if maybe it didn't do more harm to her potential career than it did good. 

Years ago, the Academy used to issue an occasional "Honorary Juvenile Award" to what they considered a promising child star.  There were no nominations, and the award was a miniature statuette. They stopped the practice about 1960.  Perhaps that might have been more suitable than a Best Actress Award.

When I was a little kid, I saw A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, which won James Dunn an Oscar for Best Actor.  What most people don't know is that a ten-year-old girl named Peggy Ann Garner won that honorary award from her part in the same movie.  Peggy Ann Garner was obviously a talented young actress, but her success was mostly because she was pushed by what is generally called a "stage mother," a parent who literally lives to see their kid on stage or on screen.  Unfortunately, it is frequently more damaging to the kid's future potential career than it is a benefit.  At least in Peggy Ann Garner's case, she became a pretty successful real estate salesperson.

There will always be a Barrymore on the screen.

One of the things that continues to fascinate me is the ongoing generations of offspring issuing forth--so to speak--from a whole bunch of movie stars.  I doubt it will ever end.  Someone would have to wipe out entire bloodlines to stop the process…but even if that happened, one day someone somewhere would clone a kid from DNA found in the hairbrush of Martin Sheen and start the whole thing all over again.

In most cases, it seems to me that the kids of successful movies stars have a better chance of continued success than most child stars.  But I've also noticed that the really successful kids are the ones who start professionally later on in life, at least well into their teens…unless he or she is a Coppola, in which case you just stick the kid in a crowd scene, give them an opportunity to let everybody know what their last name is, then when they grow up some, you give them a really good part.  I say that, by the way, with great affection and admiration for Sofia Coppola, who has proven herself not only as an actress but as a writer and director and more.  I also say that with great admiration for Nicolas Coppola, otherwise known as Nicolas Cage, who changed his name to make it on his own, which he's done quite successfully--not only on his own, but keeping his real name pretty much secret.  Having said all that, I do believe such talents do run in families…but I'll add to that that if the famous parent had been a painter or musician, that is probably the talent that would have been cultivated just as successfully.

It's also encouraging to notice--and without much debate on the matter--that some of these offspring may actually outdo their illustrious ancestors.  One outstanding example, with all due respect to his distinguished father, I think Jeff Bridges is one of the most talented, most professional, and most versatile actors around.  He's done every sort of characterization from a drunken cop, delivering the most convincing case of DTs I've yet to see in any movie, to the President of the United States, to an asshole, but ultimately loveable disk jockey in The Fisher King, to a delightfully stoned-out, but loveable nobody in The Big Lebowski, which is way the fuck up there in my personal list of really good fucking movies.  I like to think of such advances in talent as proof of evolution.

And where did all those Baldwin brothers come from?  I'd guess they were planted by aliens, but doubt the theory would fly.  Other than that, just think of all the opportunities for future generations.

Speaking of "whatever happened to…." one might be wondering whatever happened to a little girl named Melissa Gilbert, born 1964, who played Laura Elizabeth Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie, which came out in 1974.  Remember the opening shot where she runs down a hill in the meadow and takes a tumble?  I have a theory about that.  I figure it wasn't in the script.  When she gets up, she looks around, probably for the director, who, obviously, told her to keep going, which she did with a big smile.  Now it is saved for all eternity on film--a shot just too good to be planned.  That's speculation on my part, of course, although I'd bet money on it.  Well, if you've wondered, she is a grown-up very gorgeous lady, presently President of the Screen Actors' Guild, the same job once held by Ronald Reagan…ex-movie star and late President of the United States.

Speaking of Reagan, I originally intended to write a commentary entitled "Movie Stars and Actors--Not Necessarily the Same Thing."  I did wander off, however, which I'm prone to do, and which I even warned everyone about in my introduction some time back.  But the thought is still there, so I'll close with it.

The point to be made is that there are movie stars and then there are real actors, and they are not necessarily the same thing.  Reagan was a movie star.  I could write a long list of real actors, but I'll use just one for comparison…and don't feel bad if you don't recognize his name…well, it doesn't have the name recognition of a Reagan or a lot of other movie stars who aren't necessarily great actors.

He's probably best billed as a character actor, although he has had a good number of good roles, mostly supporting, however.  His name is William Fichtner.  When I say "character actor," I mean he has an extraordinary ability to create a real and believable character, no matter what the part demands.  If you need a clue or two or three, he played the blind Dr. Kent in the movie Contact, playing his character to the fullest and holding his own against James Woods, who can be a real scene stealer just about everywhere he goes (and yes, I am also a great fan of James Woods…going so far as to say that when I get really bored with life, I watch John Carpenter's Vampires).  Fichtner also played the part of Jurgen, the leader of the underground in the recent movie Equilibrium, which really is a cult sort of thing, at least in my book.  Also recently, he had a terrific part in the HBO mini series (meaning a really long movie) Empire Falls.  He was Jimmy Minty, the really asshole cop who just couldn't help but keep making trouble wherever he went or with whatever he said.  But it was not an easy part.  It was an extremely complicated character, full of inner conflicts and justifications for his assholedness that he had to believe in, and he played it to the fullest.  That's an actor, as compared to a movie star.

Connecting The Magnificent Seven and Rollerball

It was by chance that I ordered DVDs of The Magnificent Seven and Rollerball at the same time.  The Magnificent Seven was a must if one is to collect classics (opinion thereof being totally subjective); Rollerball (the original) became a must after viewing the remake with my grandson-in-law who I felt needed to see the real thing with the original significance still in place.  Granted, the stunts and special effects in the remake were pretty impressive, but what disturbed me most was the loss of that unmentionable item, in the business, as I've mentioned before, infrequently referred to as the message.

Actually, I rather enjoy watching movies with the kid, my grandson-in-law (to whom I happily gave my twenty-six year-old granddaughter in holy matrimony), like the time we watched the Godfather, all three parts, three nights in row.  My granddaughter and her grandmother (otherwise know as my wife) did something else with the rather meaningless excuse (in my opinion) that they had seen the movies already.  What better reason to watch a movie (I always say) than watching one you know ahead of time is going to be pretty damn good?  And, of course, why else would someone buy a cabinet (which my wife did) just for DVDs, and start a collection, which ought to lead to the obvious assumption you're going to watch them more than once?

Getting back to the movies under discussion:  First of all there is The Magnificent Seven, released in 1960 and based on Akira Kurosawa's, Seven Samurai, released in 1954.  (Samurai play a big part in both movies, but distinguished as Ninja and Ronin, which I'll get to later.)  To fully appreciate the significance of The Magnificent Seven, in this particular context, it is necessary to go into some philosophical background (just a bit).  If that turns you off, then go read the sports page or something like George W. Bush does.  For greater detail on that background, go to my Political Blog: Part One; Article Four:  http://wm-monje.com/blognew/main.php?file=article4.htm 

The reference is to a political essayist by the name of Lysander Spooner who is generally linked to anarchists' sites online.  He lived during most of the Nineteenth Century, tried capitalism, failed, rebelled against it, and most everything else, lived in poverty and died poor.  I never did consider him a great example to follow, nor do I agree that the Constitution is illegal because not every single man in the country (women still didn't count) personally signed off on it; but his views on the origin of legislation are interesting and possibly correct.  I'm not sure what most people think about when they see The Magnificent Seven, but other than enjoying the movie for the pure sake of entertainment, which, I am sure, is all it was meant to be, despite the unmentionable "message," which I am going to mention anyway, I can't help but reflect upon a single thought of Spooner's: the origin of the noble/aristocratic class, kings, lords and various dictators or ruling class by any name and, consequently, government and legislation all began with bands of marauding bandits and pirates.

It all started, he says, way back when there were individuals and small clans and communities who worked hard and managed to survive as individuals and small communities by growing the crops and cattle necessary to simply survive.  Then, he tells us, there were those who organized themselves, and invented weapons and trained bands or small armies in their use, who then took it upon themselves to raid and kill and even enslave those small communities of individuals struggling to eke out an existence.  I might add that Genghis Khan was a good example.  So were European invaders of the New World, particularly the Spanish, not to mention the slavers who raided Africa.  And so are a lot of multinational corporations, which are feudal to start with…but so was the Eli Wallach character, Calvera, in The Magnificent Seven. 

In time, Spooner tells us, these armies of raiders and pirates became overlords of a sort, kings and nobles, and all the farmers, eking out an existence, became their serfs or slaves. They were there to provide for those leaders of those armies who never did provide for themselves, but lived off, and continued to live off, the meager endeavors of all those serfs and slaves; and that continued on into more recent times when bureaucrats (including communists), politicians and mighty capitalists lived off the efforts of the working class. 

Those serfs were the same as chattel to them; they were among their possessions.  And as possessions, these overlords, who further banded together to form kingdoms and empires, had something of an obligation to protect them.  But they were also problematic.  Some of them could not eke out a living and became petty thieves.  Some simply didn't play by all the rules laid down by the ruling class.  Thus, in an effort to protect their possessions, their slaves, who were also their providers, legislatures were instituted among men to make laws and to govern the enslaved, even though, by this time, the enslaved were probably elevated, at least in terminology, to "the people."  It even went so far as to declare the laws were, in fact, there to protect the slaves or the serfs themselves, using nice sounding words like "democracy" and "republic," but that was never really the case.  The laws were there to protect the position, the power and the possessions, including their slaves, of those overlords and insure their continued rule.

That is the way it is according to Spooner…and he's probably right; and, if so, I doubt it will ever change.  This is where kings and princes, dictators and CEOs come from.  This is where the noble class or aristocracy comes from. This is where the serfs, the slaves, and the working class come from--and even though I do tend to agree with Spooner, I also believe it isn't going to change, regardless of Spooner's weird solutions…or anyone else's, for that matter.  It is the way things are, and, I personally believe, not only here on Earth, but probably throughout the universe (which is why I like to write sci-fi fantasies about galactic bureaucracies and/or feudal systems).  Who the hell really knows?  I just think it's a universal sort of thing among advanced societies.  I do believe that conquest and some variation of a feudal system will always be the end result.  Today it seems obvious that multinational corporations have become the new feudal system, with lords and ladies and all the trimmings.  But that's another story, and one I have beaten to death elsewhere in my political commentaries (and may do more of right here…but in a "movies" sort of context).  It does, however, segway into the next movie of the evening.

Anyway, after briefly attempting to explain the above (regarding The Magnificent Seven--the first movie we watched in one day) to my grandson-in-law and hoping he got it, we watched Rollerball, the original.  Maybe it's obvious where I'm going (if you saw the original, were paying attention, and aren't thinking about the remake), but first I do have to make my complaints about the damn remake, which totally dropped the ball (no pun intended) when it came to any social meaning or significance.

The original, starring James Caan as Jonathon E., the antihero (heroes are somewhat more virtuous) but main character, and John Houseman as the corporate antagonist, presents this tagline:  "In the not-too-distant future, wars will no longer exist. But there will be Rollerball."  The meaning being that an illusion of conflict must exist to entertain and even reassure the peoples of the world…but with a hidden purpose, which I'll get to shortly.

The tagline for the remake reads:  "Get in the game!  Go ballistic!" which totally betrays the substitution of story and characterization for spectacle, keeping in mind that Aristotle named the elements of drama in significance as plot, characterization and spectacle, plus the chorus, which, at least to me, puts it all backwards (and his book Poetics is still the basic textbook on drama, including moviemaking).

In the remake, Jonathon E. has a last name, Cross, and Bartholomew is replaced by a totally different character, who has nothing significant to say indicating any social significance to the damn storyline, named Alexi Petrovich.  (And it's not just because I'm a fan of Caan and Houseman either.)  Maybe they were just afraid to use too much dialogue, or didn't know how to use it effectively, but the whole of any meaning was lost.  The story line was incredibly simplified as compared to the original, losing any nuance, such as the opulence and decadence of the corporate ruling class, most of which was simply business going on in the background while Caan and Houseman, actually uttering meaningful lines of dialogue, began to define what it was all about.

Petrovich, the remake corporate overlord, had figured out that the people loved the violence of Rollerball, the old Roman thing of bread and circuses, especially the whole blood-sport sort of entertainment.  It simply meant it sold more tickets and/or kept the audiences happy.  Therefore, he concludes, to optimize his not particularly astute observation, he must create a game where Jonathon and teammates all get killed.  Well, that's not what it was all about in the original.

In the original we continually hear the crowds yell out "Jonathon! Jonathon!" indicating that this one single player has become a champion, above and beyond all others.  The pretense of the corporation is great admiration and lots of privilege, even while they control his life, mostly by the usual corporate-type contract already in play today…except for one thing--they want him to retire.  That part he doesn't understand and refuses to go along with, even though his whole circle of corporate furnished friends and lovers seem to think he should.

There's also an interesting side issue of Jonathon trying to find out a little history and who is running what, with a particular interest in a bit of history, of which he apparently never learned about, called "the corporate wars."  Ultimately he discovers that books have been converted to computerized text, stored and controlled by a single computer named "Zero," who, when he confronts it, has apparently gone insane, losing, among other things, the entire Thirteenth Century.

Then, if you're paying attention to the voice of Houseman (and I can't imagine who would not), the big-league corporate overlord who runs the James Caan/Jonathon E. team representing the city of Houston, you find out what the whole story is really about.  (If it is simply beyond the intellect it takes to watch the spectacular stunts of the remake, for their own sake, it does not speak well of the direction the American psyche is headed nowadays.)  Bartholomew has already revealed that the corporate-run world no longer has disease, war or poverty, which, you have to admit, makes them sound pretty righteous…unless, of course, you go back to Spooner and the concept that "the people" are, in fact, the property of the ruling class, therefore, as property, must be protected…and, of course, controlled.

This new, seemingly benevolent corporate ruling class does, however, reveal, from time to time, the mechanisms by which all those "the people" are actually enslaved.  One indication is, with what seems a blow-off sort of line, that the team players are reminded that the contract they signed does say they will continue to play by any and all rule changes.  The "contract," the ever-present and mandatory, generally non-negotiable corporate contract is the ultimate key to absolute control, the Thirteenth Amendment notwithstanding (referencing present time).  It is the signing away of privacy, individual sovereignty, and an ever-growing number basic rights.  And it is upon us already…as is the corporate feudal system.

In this futuristic dramatization, the big revelation of what it's all about takes place when Bartholomew has a conference with a bunch of other big-time corporate overlords, presumably from competing cities, although the only competition is the invention of the game itself.  He reveals for the first time that the whole purpose of Rollerball is meant to demonstrate the whole concept of teamwork, of simply being a part of something bigger than oneself.  The most basic intention being to demonstrate to one and all the "futility of individual endeavor," which we must conclude is the greatest threat to this righteous new world of corporate feudalism.  That "futility of individual endeavor" is the whole purpose of Rollerball, not the popularity of a blood sport as the remake would have it.  It is the reason Jonathon must retire.  And it is the reason the rules are changed so that Jonathon can be killed the next time he plays because he refuses to retire, and they do want him dead while still a champion because it would never erase the demonstration he made of individual endeavor.  It also protects him from assassination, the bigwigs agree, which otherwise would seem the best way to handle him.  But, ultimately, Jonathon manages to fuck them up pretty good by remaining the only player standing and scores the only point, thus producing a well developed (as opposed to "jazz heaven") pretty much happy ending, although it's more of a point well made.  The remake is just another pointless action film, totally missing a rather deep significance of the original.

My wife laughed out loud when I told her I was writing a movie commentary making a connection between The Magnificent Seven and Rollerball.  I tried to keep a straight face.  It does seem like a stretch, if not an absurdity, but it's there nevertheless.  I did mention it had to do with the origins of a ruling class, represented in The Magnificent Seven by Calvera (the Eli Wallach character) and his band of bandits; and in Rollerball by Bartholomew (the John Houseman character) and the corporations.  (I did decide not to mention Wal-Mart, however, even though I could have worked it into either movie.)  In both cases we're talking about an American versus a Japanese concept of both culture and enterprise.  And in both cases we're talking about the concept of the Samurai unwritten code and sense of loyalty and belonging.

In the case of Rollerball, we have the traditional Samurai warrior, represented by the Rollerball team, who, because they belong and are highly skilled and totally devoted to their overlord (Jonathon's team, for instance, will chant "Huston! Huston!" when challenged by any other consideration, including self-preservation), which would qualify them as Ninjas.  They remain totally devoted to their overlord, a corporation represented by a particular city, thus giving them and the whole world a sense of competition in a world were war no longer exists.  The corporations, however, are not in competition but are united as one empire that controls the whole world; and, it should be remembered, the game itself was to demonstrate teamwork, meaning belonging, and the "futility of individual achievement," which is why they could not tolerate a "champion" who stood out above the team.

In Japanese culture it is quite a social comedown to not belong to a greater community or enterprise.  With Samurai, it was not belonging to and serving a particular overlord.  In Kurosawa's Seven Samurai, the storyline behind The Magnificent Seven, the seven are billed, in English, as "unemployed" Samurai.  In Japanese, that would make them Ronin.  In that culture, it would also make them social outcasts, much as the crew in The Magnificent Seven were viewed.  Another example of Ronin would be an aerospace engineer who was laid off because of downsizing or outsourcing.  At best they might end up with contract labor, just like The Magnificent Seven characters; at worst they get a McJob.

Ask any American, with any kind of knowledge of American history as it used to be taught, what built this country, and he will probably say, "Rugged individualism," which could mean a number of things, including entrepreneurship…or maybe it's just a phrase that never really meant much.  Whatever the case, it is quite the opposite of the basically imperial Japanese culture and the need to serve an already establish "greater good."  Whether that is right, or whether one is better than the other, they do seem to be distinctly different in that respect.  And the Japanese model of corporate enterprise seems to be the one in preference today, right here in America.  I'd say history will tell, but history is changing every day, and I don't mean new history but the real record of the way it was.  I even wonder if the remake of Rollerball isn't, perhaps in a non-knowing sort of way, more of the same rewrite of history. 

Let's also keep in mind that a savings and loan, as run by the Jimmy Stewart character in Capra's It's a Wonderful Life could no longer exist in this country.  What's more, if the Congress does away with the filibuster, the Jimmy Stewart character in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, another Capra movie, could no longer exist either.  Old movies may be the only real record of history…until they are remade, I suppose.

In an era of action films (and I've got to admit I love them too), it is easy to forget the dialogue…if, in fact, there was anything meaningful to start with.  In both these old movies, there is, however, significant dialogue that does make a point worth considering.  Following are a few lines from The Magnificent Seven, and a bit more commentary.

Speaking of corporate contractual enslavement, and by contrast, here's an interesting line from The Magnificent Seven when they are considering leaving the villagers:

Chris: "You forget one thing. We took a contract."

Vin: "It's sure not the kind any court would enforce."

Chris: "That's just the kind you've got to keep."

Calvera: "If God hadn't meant for them to be sheared, he wouldn't have made them sheep."  It was an appropriate line for a leader of a band of bandits, but would have been equally so for a bishop, a televangelist, a board of corporate executives, or a parliament or congress and their executive branch tax collector, meaning an agent of the king, the president or any other dictator.

Following is an exchange between one the townsmen and the character of Vin, played by Steve McQueen (who could upstage even Brynner simply by fanning himself with his hat in the background):

Hilario, one of the townsmen: "The feeling I felt in my chest this morning, when I saw Calvera run away from us, that's a feeling worth dying for. Have you ever felt something like that?"  Which might have been said by an American Colonial militiaman…but not much anymore.

Vin: "Not for a long, long time. I envy you."  A reply that might fit the feelings of a National Guardsman--maybe a corporate mercenary--shooting at a sixteen year old Iraqi.  One has to wonder, when in the military service of this country, when anyone will find a caus