So, my birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks.  I don’t know about you guys, but I like to celebrate my birthday.  I know some people who don’t celebrate their birthdays anymore for some reason.  Charlie, for example, doesn’t do much on his birthday.  Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t seem to give a shit either. 

However, whether it’s hosting a simple dinner with friends at Taverna Tony (my usual birthday spot) or buying myself something special that I’ve been wanting or enjoying a combination of the two, I always try to do something.  Birthdays are great.  And, although I try to discourage my friends from buying me gifts and things, I usually wind up getting a bunch of bottles of wine and spirits and, if I’m really lucky, maybe even a couple of Criterion Collection DVDs. 

The reason I discourage gift-giving isn’t because I don’t like gifts; I love them.  I’m just a difficult person to shop for.  Scratch that, I’m a pain in the ass.  (Mom, if you’re reading this, you must be smiling.)  Why am I pain in the ass?  Well, it probably has something to do with the fact that I’m very, very particular when it comes to some things.  I don’t just want any book, for example.  I want books like my last conquest, “Collected Screenplays” by Andrei Tarkovsky, which is rare, out-of-print, prohibitively expensive, and, typically, must be ordered through a seller in the Amazon.co.uk marketplace (or a similar used book dealer in the UK). 

In fact, most Christmases, my list becomes so specific, not to mention outlandish, that my mom just tells me to order a few of the things I want and, then, reimburses me later.  After years of accidentally ordering the wrong editions of various books and having to return them, I think she’s finally been beaten into submission.  I don’t want to sound like an ingrate or anything, but there are key differences between Steven Soderbergh’s “Sex, Lies, and Videotape” as published in May 1990 by Harpercollins and the edition published in February 2000 by Faber Reel Classics.  Actually, despite the occasional accident, my close friends and family often do a great job because they somehow manage to find me things that I didn’t realize I wanted or, in some cases, always wanted but never thought I’d actually get.  Which brings me to the subject of today’s blog. 

Recently, I started seeing a girl, who, for the time being, will remain nameless.  My birthday falls on July 8th and hers falls on the 15th.  Sadly, because of my recent business trip to HK, we quickly realized that we wouldn’t be able to spend our birthdays together.  And so, we decided to celebrate early.  When it came time to exchange gifts, I was feeling pretty confident that I’d covered all my bases.  After all, even though I’d spent the previous month traveling around Europe, I had made a point to pick up a few things along the way and, even though they weren’t fancy, per se, they were sentimental...

Swish. 

Then, it came time to open my present.  Honestly, I was more than a little worried.  She had asked me a few seemingly random questions during the weeks leading up to our rendezvous, which I correctly interpreted as “fishing.”  (For example: “When you sign your name, do you do it as ‘Dax Phelan’ or ‘Joseph Dax Phelan’ or ‘Joseph D. Phelan?’” Etc.) 

Sneaky, huh? 

Anyway, my gift came in black box about the size of a TV remote control.  I unwrapped the matte black paper, saw an insignia that took my breath away, and opened the box to reveal…



In this photo: Mont Blanc Starwalker (Black Resin & Platinum).









Swish.  She did it.  She actually did it.  She’d read my mind.  And she does that a lot.  I’m not exaggerating when I say that I’ve dreamed of owning a pen like this for twenty years.  In fact, I’ve wanted to own a pen like this long before I even knew that I wanted to write.  When I finally did decide that I wanted to write for a living, I dreamed of owning one of these even more. 

However, for some reason, and perhaps some of you will relate to this, as badly as I wanted such a writing instrument, it wasn’t something I ever wanted to buy for myself.  I secretly wanted someone to give it to me.  I wanted someone to really take the time.  I wanted someone to really take the time to figure out the perfect gift for me.  I wanted someone to spend as much energy choosing a gift for me as I spend choosing gifts for my loved ones.  I wanted someone to be inspired. 

Alas, in twenty years, it never happened.  There’s no mystery as to why.  It’s a tall order.  I mean, seriously, to hope that someone is going to read your mind is an absurd pastime.  Ridiculous.  Idealistic.  Silly.  Ill-advised.  Flat-out absurd.  The list of adjectives goes on.  Ironically, about six years ago, I actually bought a similar pen as a gift for someone else.  When that person didn’t seem to appreciate it, a wound was opened.  It was one of many and it never seemed to heal… until now.  

Anyway, this is all just a long way of saying…

Thank you, baby.  I’ve never really thought of myself as a lucky guy.  But I’ve been feeling pretty lucky lately.  

-Me

I was in a Glastonbury bookstore with Charlie yesterday, trying very hard to find a special gift for someone, when I suddenly came across an old, musty, and crumbling anthology of Dylan Thomas poems.  Thrilled, I opened it to the Table of Contents and, to my great disappointment, found that it didn't contain my favorite of Thomas' poems, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion."  I decided against taking the anthology back across the pond with me, but thought the poem might be of interest to some of you.  I've copied and pasted it below.  -Dax

             AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION

             By Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

And death shall have no dominion.

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

 

And death shall have no dominion.

Under the windings of the sea

They lying long shall not die windily;

Twisting on racks when sinews give way,

Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;

Faith in their hands shall snap in two,

And the unicorn evils run them through;

Split all ends up they shan't crack;

And death shall have no dominion.

 

And death shall have no dominion.

No more may gulls cry at their ears

Or waves break loud on the seashores;

Where blew a flower may a flower no more

Lift its head to the blows of the rain;

Though they be mad and dead as nails,

Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;

Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,

And death shall have no dominion.

Sydney Pollack died today.  I've known this was coming for a while now, but it doesn't make it any easier.  He will be missed.  Back when I was working on the Sony lot, I'd pass Pollack from time to time, see him at the commissary, run into him at the Sony store, etc.  I never told him how much his work meant to me and I regret that very much.  The following article is from the AP.  -Dax

LOS ANGELES - Academy Award-winning director Sydney Pollack, a Hollywood mainstay who achieved commercial success and critical acclaim with the gender-bending comedy "Tootsie" and the period drama "Out of Africa" while often dabbling as a television and movie actor, has died. He was 73.

Pollack died of cancer Monday afternoon at his home in Pacific Palisades in Los Angeles, surrounded by family, said publicist Leslee Dart. Pollack had been diagnosed with cancer about nine months ago, said Dart.

Pollack, who occasionally appeared on the big screen himself, worked with and gained the respect of Hollywood's best actors in a long career that reached prominence in the 1970s and 1980s.

"Sydney made the world a little better, movies a little better and even dinner a little better. A tip of the hat to a class act," George Clooney said in a statement from his publicist.

"He'll be missed terribly," Clooney said.

Last fall, he played law firm boss Marty Bach opposite Clooney in "Michael Clayton," a drama that examines the life of fixer for lawyers. The film, which Pollack co-produced, received seven Oscar nominations, including for best picture and a best actor nod for Clooney. Tilda Swinton won the Oscar for supporting actress.

Pollack was no stranger to the Academy Awards. In 1986, "Out of Africa" a romantic epic of a woman's passion set against the landscape of colonial Kenya, captured seven Oscars, including best director and best picture.

In accepting his Oscar, Pollack commended Meryl Streep, who was nominated for best actress but didn't win.

"I could not have made this movie without Meryl Streep," Pollack said. "She is astounding — personally, professionally, all ways."

Over the years, several of his other films, including "Tootsie" and "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?" got several nominations, including best director nods.

The list of actors he directed reads like a who's who of Hollywood A-listers: Sally Field and Paul Newman in "Absence of Malice," Nicole Kidman and Sean Penn in "The Interpreter," Robert Mitchum in "The Yakuza," Tom Cruise in "The Firm," Robert Redford in "Three Days of the Condor," and Redford and Barbra Streisand in "The Way We Were," and other big-name actors in other films.

"Having the opportunity to know Sydney and work with him was a great gift in my life," Field said in a statement. "He was a good friend and a phenomenal director and I will cherish every moment that I ever spent with him."

In later years, he devoted more time to acting, appearing in Woody Allen's "Husbands and Wives," Robert Altman's "The Player," Robert Zemeckis' "Death Becomes Her," and Stanley Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut."

His last screen appearance was in "Made of Honor," a romantic comedy currently in theaters, where he played the oft-married father of star Patrick Dempsey's character.

Pollack had an occasional recurring role on the NBC sitcom "Will & Grace" playing Will's (Eric McCormack) father, and also appeared in the "The Sopranos," "Frasier" and "Mad About You."

Pollack also produced many independent films with filmmaker Anthony Minghella, who died in March, and the production company Mirage Enterprises. His recent producing credits include "The Talented Mr. Ripley" and "Cold Mountain."

The Lafayette, Ind. native was born to first-generation Russian-Americans. In high school in South Bend, he fell in love with theater, a passion that prompted him to forego college and move to New York and enroll in the Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theater.

Studying under Sanford Meisner, Pollack spent several years cutting his teeth in various areas of theater, eventually becoming Meisner's assistant.

"We started together in New York and he always excelled at everything he set out to do, his friendships and his humanity as much as his talents," said Martin Landau, a longtime close friend and associate in the Actors Studio, through spokesman Dick Guttman.

After appearing in a handful of Broadway productions in the 1950s, Pollack turned his eye to directing — where he would ultimately leave his biggest mark.

"Sydney let the dialogue and the emotion of a scene speak for itself. Not given to cinematic tricks, his gentle and thoughtful touch and his focus on the story let us inhabit the world he created in each film," said Michael Apted, president of the Directors Guild of America.

In the "The Interpreter," that world was the United Nations. The first feature film to be shot inside the U.N., Pollack had never been inside the Manhattan landmark until starting work on the film in 2004.

"I am ashamed to admit that I went to school here in New York. I got married here, I worked here, I walked by this building a thousand times," he told reporters. "I had never been inside it until the first location scouting trip, and I was awed by it."

Pollack, who stood over six feet tall and had a striking presence on the screen, never totally gave up acting.

"Most of the great directors that I know of were not actors, so I can't tell you it's a requirement," he said. "On the other hand, it's an enormous help."

At the 2005 Tribeca Film Festival, Pollack said "Tootsie" star Dustin Hoffman pushed the director into playing the actor's exasperated agent.

Pollack said Hoffman repeatedly sent him roses with a note reading, "Please be my agent. Love, Dorothy." At that point, Pollack hadn't acted in 20 years.

In the 1982 movie, Hoffman plays an out-of-work actor who pretends to be a woman to land a role on a soap opera.

"I didn't think anyone would believe him as a woman," Pollack said. "But the world did, they went crazy."

Pollack is survived by his wife, Claire; two daughters, Rebecca and Rachel; his brother Bernie; and six grandchildren.Pollack's son, Steven, died in a plane crash in 1993.

Here is a clip of Pollack playing Michael Dorsey's agent in "Tootsie," which he also directed.

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnHqiipcw6g

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBZf7vifXmY

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBC0e-w_zNE

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIegoQAayFs

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npb8GfigHG4

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XwaT2STdRks&feature=related

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kF-lNumI2qk

For about ten years, Charlie has regaled me with stories about his father’s “epic hikes” through the mountains near his home in Monaco and, for about ten years, I’ve dreamed of one day participating in such a hike. 

Now, I wouldn’t say that I’m a big hiker, per se, but I hiked a fair amount back when I was in the Boy Scouts during my teens and have enjoyed hikes in such varied places as Maui, Hong Kong, and Los Angeles during my adulthood.  Basically, if the scenery promises to be good, I’m there.  And thus far, I’ve found that Monaco, as well as the South of France in general, has nothing, if not good scenery. 

So, when I learned that Charlie’s father – let’s call him “El Jefe” – was returning to Monaco for a week, coinciding with our stay here, I was determined to tag along with him, even if it meant embarrassing myself.  Therefore, you can imagine how great my disappointment was when I learned that I missed out on yesterday morning’s hike because El Jefe prefers to leave early in the morning and, like a total freakin’ wimp, I overslept.  This morning, I would not make the same mistake.  In fact, I even considered sleeping in El Jefe’s car last night just to make sure he didn’t leave without me. 

I awoke – not quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but awake – around 7 am this morning, ate a pear, drank some Perrier, left the door to my quarters open, and returned some e-mails while listening for the sound of El Jefe’s signature gait coming down the hall.  Eventually, I heard footfalls.  El Jefe’s footfalls.  And I knew the time had come. 

Alas, Charlie and his stepmom – let’s call her “Wife of El Jefe” – had decided not to come this morning.  So, it was just El Jefe and me.  Bolstered by the sound of my inner drumroll, I pulled on my tennis shoes, grabbed my camera, and joined El Jefe, who was now clad in his official hiking attire, at the front door.  We rode the elevator down to the underground parking garage, at which point El Jefe suggested that we take the Bentley.  I told him I’d never ridden in a Bentley before and this seemed to amuse him.  (In all honesty, I’d never ridden in a Range Rover, their other car, prior to this trip either.) 

Suffice it to say, I now want a Bentley.  El Jefe’s is a gorgeous shade of blue, has a plush crème interior, and probably costs more than my parents’ house.  It started with just the push of a button and, unbeknownst to me, turned out to be turbo-charged.  As we emerged into daylight, El Jefe said, “I thought we’d put the top down.” 

Oh, yeah, did I mention it was a convertible? 

Moments later, as we were tearing ass down Avenue Princess Grace in El Jefe’s handmade muscle car, with our shades on and the wind in our hair, I couldn’t help but smile.  I was having a great time.  Hike?  What hike?  Who said anything about hiking?  I wanted to ride around until the wheels fell off. 

The roads that led up to the mountains were narrow and winding, starting at sea level and eventually climbing all the way up to 800 meters.  Due to the switchbacks, we must have crossed the Monaco-France border half a dozen times as we zig-zagged our way upward. 

The scenery wasn’t beautiful; it was majestic.  Chanel couldn’t have described Monaco any better when she told me that it was like something out of a fairy tale.  It is.  It really, really is. 

As the Bentley continued to earn my respect, shrugging off the laws of gravity and hurtling around the curves like they were nothing, El Jefe provided me with a fascinating, running commentary on the various sights we passed, including, but certainly not limited to, hotels, base jumper launch sites, ancient Roman ruins, and hamlets where Cary Grant filmed “To Catch A Thief” and Robert De Niro filmed “Ronin.” 

I would have taken pictures for you all, but, much to my mounting concern (scratch that, fear), the precipices were as stomach-churning as the scenery was majestic.  My sphincter got sore, to be perfectly frank, and I think I chipped a molar.  (All right, all right…Let the wisecracks begin, you dirty bastards.  Get it out of your system.  This probably the only line you’ll remember from the entire blog anyway.)  There was, after all, no real guardrail to speak of.  OK, there was a concrete lip that measured maybe – maybe – six inches in height, but it was not a guardrail.  It looked more like concrete parking curb.  If I’m not mistaken, those things are meant to stop you from crashing into the front of a 7-11, not from pulling a “Thelma & Louise.” 

In any event, with the demise of Princess Grace at the forefront of my mind, I decided the pictures would have to wait.  This was survival and, I’m sorry to say, white-knuckling my armrest took precedence over your viewing pleasure.  Thankfully, El Jefe was quite patient with me and didn’t seem to mind answering even my more pedestrian questions – for example, “If, hypothetically, one was to go over the edge, is there anything to stop you from going… haha… you know… all the way down?” 

El Jefe said I’d get used to it and, maybe I’m being paranoid, but it seemed like he actually got a fiendish gleam in his eye after he said this, hit the gas, and started taking the turns even faster. 

As we continued our ascent, I could still hear the Formula One engines buzzing from below, like giant angry wasps, while the Monaco Grand Prix’s time trials carried on in the distance and I could actually feel it getting colder.  According to El Jefe, for every 100 meters you climb, the temperature drops one degree centigrade.  By the time we reached 800 meters, I was wishing I’d brought a coat. 

We arrived at the Monte Carlo Golf Club, which, interestingly enough, is actually in France, and parked alongside a one-lane road on its outskirts.  Several hundred meters above us, the top of the mountain was shrouded in rolling banks of fog and, intermittently, one could catch glimpses of an old French military fortification clinging to the precipice on one of its flanks. 



El Jefe opened the boot, put on his hiking boots, donned a hat, and grabbed his hiking poles while I tried to get a 360-degree view of the area for you.  Sadly, this was one of those places to which a camera can’t do justice…


Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlaZpZRv3i4

El Jefe lent me one of his jumpers and an extra pair of hiking poles.  “The hike I’m taking you on today is an easy one,” he said.  “But most people wind up on their ass at some point.” 

He shut the boot, set the alarm, and we left the Bentley there on the side of a mountain road while we proceeded down a salt trail that’s probably thousands of years old.  It was my first time on a salt trail.  For those of you who may not be familiar with the term, a salt trail is a trade route by way of which the ancients used to transport salt from the sea back to their mountain villages – usually for livestock purposes.  The trail was dusty, comprised of loose rock, and, as we made our way along it, my mind couldn’t help but conjure up fond memories of Umberto Eco’s “The Name of the Rose.”  Soon, the salt trail dead-ended at a tree that seemed symbolic of something.  (How was that for alliteration?)  What, I don’t know.  But have a look, in any case…



We proceeded downhill shortly thereafter and entered the woods, which reminded me of nothing so much as the Sherwood Forest of “Robin Hood.” 



Again, El Jefe provided me with an intermittent commentary along the way, pointing out the various sights, informing me about the indigenous wildlife, etc.  The Maritime Alps are home to wild donkeys, horses, sheep, boars, and even a few endangered wolves. 


Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7lQKgFE86w

Interestingly, on more than one occasion, El Jefe has actually been joined on his hikes by the same wild donkey, who, apparently, likes to keep people company on their hikes.  This gave me an idea for a short story, actually.  I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever write it. 

We came upon ancient stone walls, now covered with lichens and overgrown with foliage… the ruins stone farmhouses, now crumbling and barely distinguishable from the forest around them… cascading waterfalls… rocks stained red by air-dropped fire retardant… buttercups and lavender... and patches of overturned earth where wild boars had dug up roots and such. 

















I never fell on my ass, thankfully, though there was a few occasions where I was worried I might and take El Jefe down the mountain with me.  Like he said, it wasn’t a difficult hike, but the rocks underfoot were loose in some places and slippage was inevitable. 

As I followed El Jefe and listened to his commentary and reflections, an idea for a TV show dawned on me as well.  I won’t go into it here, because, as we all know, these walls have ears.  However, I think it has legs.  Furthermore, the fact that I had ideas for two, entirely new, creative endeavors within the span of a half hour only served to underscore my long-held opinion that, although exercise means leaving the desk behind, which is very difficult for me to do sometimes, it often yields some of my best work. 

We must have hiked for an hour or so before suddenly finding ourselves confronted by the same, seemingly symbolic tree.  (Sorry.  More alliteration.  I couldn't resist.)  I’m still not sure if this tree meant anything or if it was merely my endorphins kicking in. 

We made our way back down the salt trail and returned to the car. 



I tried to get another 360-degree view of the area for you, even though the first one left a lot to be desired, because, I guess, I’m a sucker for that kind of thing.  Also, there was a classic shot in “Taxi Driver,” in which Scorsese’s camera left Travis Bickle, established the cab company where Travis worked with a 360-degree pan, and returned to Travis afterwards.  Part of me, if you want to know the real truth, was trying to replicate that effect with my Lumix...


Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a03jq44Ssj4

On the way back down the mountain, bolstered by my endorphins and feeling rather invincible, I managed to worry less about crashing and take a few pictures for you.  Let’s see how these turned out, shall we?  









Finally, we returned to El Jefe’s hacienda.  Ironically, it wasn't until we were on our way up to the apartment on the elevator that I noticed my ears pop for the first time -- twice. 

-Dax

The roar of Formula One engines awoke me this morning.  It was about 7 am, I went to bed with an upset stomach the night before, and I’m still kicking the shit out of myself for saying something stupid to someone I care about a couple of nights ago.  Anyway, I followed my ears to the window, stepped out onto the balcony, and could see a long line of Formula One cars stretching down Avenue Princess Grace.  The 66th Monaco Grand Prix had begun.

This is actually my first foray into the realm of motorsports and, fortunately for me, the Monaco Grand Prix is widely considered to be one of the most important and prestigious automobile races in the world, alongside the Indy 500 and Le Mans.  According to Wikipedia, the Circuit de Monaco consists of the city streets of Monte Carlo and La Condamine, which includes the famous harbour.  The race circuit has many elevation changes, tight corners, and a narrow course that make it perhaps the most demanding track in Formula One racing.  As of 2007, only two drivers have crashed and ended up in the harbour, the most famous being Alberto Ascari in 1955.  Despite the fact that the course has had minor changes several times during its history, it is still is considered the ultimate test of driving skills in Formula One, and if it were not already an existing Grand Prix, it would not be permitted to be added to the schedule for safety reasons.  Triple Formula One champion Nelson Piquet was fond of saying that racing at Monaco was “like trying to cycle round your living room," but added that "a win here was worth two anywhere else.”

Anyway, today was the practice session.  Tomorrow is the pole position.  The day after is the race itself.  (At least, I think that's how it works.)  Charlie and I decided to take a walk down to the famous hairpin turn, in order to watch what we could of the practice session.  Our tickets are for Saturday and Sunday, so it was difficult for us to get close to the action.  Regardless, I took a few shots, in case some of you are interested.

The view from my balcony this morning...



There were camera crews everywhere, televising the race...



I wish I had a lens like that...



Security was tight...



I took some shots of the race, but they weren't very good because of the distance and the barricades.  I'll get better ones over the next two days.  In the meantime, I had to get a bit creative.  If you'll bear with me for a moment, I want you to forget the visuals and focus on the sounds of Formula One... Don't forget to pump up the volume...

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cItW438rew

By the way, Ferrari's world champion Kimi Raikkonen edged out Lewis Hamilton to set the pace in practice session. 

-Dax