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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (June 2, 1977)
Films in retrospect hope for the future By KRISTI TURNQUIST Of the Emerald Confess. Have you been scanning the movie pages in frustrated agony? Nails bitten to the quick? Been devouring reruns of Who Was That Lady? on TV? Do you hurl blunt objects at local theatre marquees? These are all common signs of cinema withdrawal symptoms, known to intimates as Moviegoer's D.T.’s. Such aberrations occur on a large scale at least twice a year — preceding Christmas and in late Spring. Distributors, unmerciful vermin that they are, are behind this suffering. You see, they operate on the feast or famine theory. Starve moviegoers for a month or two, the propose, then stun’em with a glut of “blockbuster” releases at Christmastime and in early summer, the better to reap vacationing students' dollars. This is how gems such as The Creature From Black Lake, The Car and Pom Pom Girls escape. In this fetid climate, a re-release of The Sting becomes the hottest show in town and Young Frankenstein lumbers out for another encore. So, while we breathlessly await Star Wars. A Bridge Too Far, The Deep and New York, New York, which daddy distributor will unclutch from his bosom when it suits his economic purpose, let's amble Down Cinema Way for a look at the past year's offerings and some sweeping generalizations about the future. For a while there, it looked as if Robert Evans and Dino de Lauren tiis might revive the days of the Producer Film. Evans meticulously supervised Marathon Man and Black Sunday, and Dino nurtured his remake of King Kong like a loving papa. They recalled Hollywood's glamor days by cranking up the star machinery in attempts to turn Marthe Keller and Jessica Lange (who?) into 'big stars. The results have shown the machinery may be broken beyond repair. The biggest noise as far as profits and publicity go, nowever, came from Rocky, the phenomenon of the year. Sylvester Stallone promoted himself and his movie into the public eye, where they have remained like a persistent cinder. He also demonstrated how to rip off a classic (On the Waterfront), and do it so crassly the pilferage goes almost un noticed. Stallone's Actor/writer Film was a new kind of hyphenation; Bar bara Streisand revived another one for herself. Streisand madea killing, money and ego-wise, with her Actor/producer Film, a remake of A Star is Born. Double threats like this made Paddy Chayeksy’s merely Writer Film, Network, seem a paltry achievement. As for the rest of the commercial assembly line, Nickelodeon stood out as wunderkind Peter Bogdanovich s last hurrah; Silver Streak and Fun With Dick and Jane displayed how stupid writing and direction can utterly waste talented performers; and Carrie and Obsession showed Brian de Palma directing badly in two styles — satirical and straight. To top it off, we have this sorry assemblage of old-fashioned product: Voyage of the Damned, The Cassandra Crossing, The Domino Principle, Two-Minute Warning and Twilight’s Last Gelaming. One must think hard to forget these losers. If all this is depressing, one can usually find solace in the “adult” world of foreign films, right? Not exactly. Eugene’s standout trio, to judge by word of mouth and length of run, was Bergman’s Face to Face, Cousin,Cousine and Jonah Who Will be 25 in the Year 2000. Bergman’s film was heavy going, and typically dense in psychological implications and emotional intensity. The other two, however, are indicative of a new trend in foreign films — frivolity. An apt work to describe the French Cousin, Cousine and Swiss Jonah, is “charming.” That is certainly a rare commodity these days, but American audiences have classically looked for more from foreign films. Earthiness, political ideology, technical innovation, daring subject mat ter, honesty, intensity, rough edges qualities lacking in Cousin and Jonah. Perhaps a certain passion and freshness is lost as the surface becomes smoother? Werner Herzog and Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Germany’s dynamic duo, have stirred much interest and their work seems rich in the above mentioned characteristics. Cinema 7’s worthies brought us a Fassbinder/Herzog double bill, Fox and His Friends and Even Dwarfs Started Small, not long ago. Most of these prolific artists’ work may never reach us, though. Some conscientious scheduling by University film committees is needed here, as money allows. In fact, Eugene is still awaiting local premieres of such highly praised films as Eric Rohmer’s The Marquise of O, Peter Watkin s Edvard Munch, Marcel Ophul s The Memory of Justice and Robert Altman’s Three Women. Let’s hope when The Creature From Black Lake disappears into the mire these films will find bookings. Before you rush to a nearby railing, despondent over the entire film situation, consider the imminent future. War movies are on the upswing again, what with The Eagle Has Landed, Sam Peckinpah’s Cross of Iron, the starry A Bridge Too Far and Francis Ford Coppola’s storm/budget/strife-ridden Vietnam version of Conrad’s ‘‘Heart of Darkness,” Apocalypse Now. These should Satiate the machos, while the other predicted on slaught takes over—Women’s Films. If Altman’s fascinating Three Women is an example, we could have a rewarding trend here. Jane Fonda might redeem herself for Fun With Dick and Jane in Lillian Heilman's Julia, co-starring Vanessa Redgrave. Other projects cur rently talked up are Diane Keaton in a movie of the quintessential single woman’s nightmare novel, Looking for Mr. Goodbar, and Shirley Mac Laine and Anne Bancroft as dancers in The Turning Point. Lily Tomlin, buoyed by her recent barrage of press and public support may also be heard from. Behind the camera, Lina Wertmuller should be completing her first English-language film, and Joan Micklin Silver’s Behind the Lines has just opened in New York. Well, that seems to be it for this year. Good luck waiting out the meaty stuff and try not to get caught sneaking in to see Pom Pom Girls in the meantime. Flora Purim’s album reviewed Flora Purim: Nothing Will Be As It Was.. .Tomorrow Copyright 1977 Warner Bros. Records BS-2985 Produced by Leon Chancier (in association with Flora Purim and Airto Moreira) By MARK ROWE Of the Emerald If you can’t have the best, take the next-to-the-best. Nothing Will Be As It Was . . Tomorrow is not Flora Purim’s latest album, but it is her next-to-the-most-recent album and certainly ranks as one of her best. Downbeat voted Flora Purim the top female jazz vocalist for three years and her pair of albums, Open Your Eyes You Can Fly, and Nothing Will Be As It Was speak not only of her vocal capabilities, but her courage and perseverence as well. Flora Purim released Open Your Eyes soon after she got out of prison less than two years ago Filled with images of rivers, long walks, reunions and flight it was an album symbolic of her freedom. Three songs on that album (including the excellent title track) were written by Chick Corea of Return To Forever fame. Nothing Will Be As It Was is a slightly different album, many of the songs are smoother, some of the electric guitar edge has been taken off. There are three instrumental (or at least lyric-less) songs on this album, more than on Open Your Eyes, and the one song written in Spanish contrasts the Portuguese lyrics of “Ina's Song Hop To Bahia)’’ from the previous record. Writer Milton Nascimiento takes over as the major songwriter, three of the seven tunes were co-written by him, no two with the same other writers. Flora Purim uses her voice to her best abilities on the popular ’Angels,” a very light, jazzy-funky tune backed by the steady conga work of producer Leon “Ndugu” Chancier and a crisp electric guitar solo by Al McKay. Nothing Will Be As It Was features an impressive total of thirty-six performers including such luminaries as master percussionist Airto, who also received praise from Downbeat and was voted into the Down beat Allstars, the elite of jazz and blues musicians today. Keyboardist Dawili Gonga, who plays on three tracks, also receives attention on another recent jazz release by guitarist Lee Ritenour; on this album he is one of five keyboard players who cover everything from Arp String Ensemble to Fender Rhoades. Gonga takes his only solo on the title track, "Nothing Will Be As It Was (Nada Sera Como Antes).” While the lyrics of the jazz modes (when there are lyrics at all) are not typically the most important facets of the compositions, the songs that Flora Purim sings sometimes contain a striking imagery, as was certainly the case with Open Your Eyes. The lyrics here, combined with her fluid, lilting and beautiful voice create a powerful effect on the songs Bridges” and "Nothing Will Be As It Was (Nada Sera Como Antes)." Flora Purim, along with Airto and Northwest latin-jazz group Upepo will appear tomorrow night, June 3, at the Lane County Civic Center, east of the Fairgrounds, in a concert that should prove to be a fine and unique experience Flora Purim FICTION Tears Well Spent I need to cry because I want to and it feels close to me close to the truth and right for now. I welcome the tears for they are real. I need to cry because my eyes can’t look toward new visions until they've been cleansed. Painted images and apologies do flow, are already slipping out. You were with me now you're gone. The time was shorter then it was long. The summer sun set in its organic homestead on the sea; Then, you were still a part of me. But now, there is only a tangle of seaweed and confusion and me. Mary McCoy That’s the end of this evening That's the end of this evening A reason to retire Calming Ease away from making the connections. To where they happen freely In routine Choosing and determining The value s effect and cause Sensing, nonsensing Chosen and determined The value is effect and cause nonsensing sense “Ease away from making the connections, to where they happen freely!" It’s routine That’s the start of this evening A reason to retire? Confusing. Noke Hidding The Far Distant Future There is a race of octopi In the far distant future That comes out on dry land. With four arms clasping their sea-cow mounts, Two arms with scythes And two arms with baskets; They come to harvest the beach-wheat. And men, at that time feeble and dull, Come to watch the harvest, Because they know the octopi Are now meticulous creatures And always leave some wheat behind. And the men are greatful in a dull way, That there is something to glean, But the octopi, looking always toward the sea, Take no notice. Dale Brabb Maybe I Don’t Want You to Sit Here T The three chandeliers speak (in unison): “Hanging, we see desperation and separateness. We see those who still able to move, Chained, unchanging—unable to change, Refusing a future which they manipulate With fists. As the air and the floor have & C\ f\ dissolved their boundaries, So too, will those of people and chairs — Can there be open hands which caress the inanimate?” - Morrison Weed The Book of Matches The sedan buzzed quietly along the two-lane country road The dnver, Verna Bush, was securely strapped in her late-model luxury car, and drove without noticing the beaut iful countryside that flowed along on both sides. Verna had been to Woodvale, to see her sister, and although things had gone pleasantly with her sister, Verna still felt anxiety. Her anxiety centered .around driving after dark, she didn't like driving in the dark and hoped to get home before sunset. If there were more cars on the road, she probably wouldn't have been nervous. Verna wasn’t the kind of person that liked to have a lot of people around her, but she would have felt better if there were at least some cars on this darkening road. There weren’t even any houses, all lit up and warm inside, to give her a glow as she went by Why does it have to be so boring and long she thought almost irritably. Perhaps some music would help calm her nerves she decided and put a tape of 1000 Living Violins on the tapedeck; but even that smoothly soothing sound couldn’t quite dispel the discomfort brought on by the oatherinq darkness. "It’s getting dark, too,” she said out loud, and was instantly embarassed, looking quickly around the empty car, as if there were someone there who had seen her slip so noticeably. “My goodness,” she continued nervously, ‘Here I am, a grown woman, talking to myself.” She won dered if any of the women in her bridge circle ever talked to themselves, she decided that they probably did not. Re membering her bridge circle brought back cither decidedly unpleasant thoughts. She felt a little shiver of fear as she remembered the last meeting, and the stories that had been told about lonely women on the road at night. It had been exciting to repeat scary stories, but they weren’t excit ing to her now, they were only scary. The headlights that Verna began to see in her mirror did much to make her feel better, at least they represented a sign of humanity and she wasn’t so all alone on the road after all. The headlights seemed almost to warm the back of her neck, she felt, and glanced at them in the rear-view mirror. Then she noticed that the lights were not paired, like car lights, but instead were singular, like motorcycle head lights. So, rather than a string of cars behind her, Verna had a pack of motorcycles, getting so close that Verna could distinguish their individual shadowy silouettes. Verna quickly checked her door locks and made sure that the windows were all up, sealing her in from the cold night and all the uncertainties that it held. She was begin ning to feel frightened, because of all the stories about attacks on women that she had heard, she had been most impressed with the ones involving motorcycle gangs. Motorcycle gangs terrified Verna, and here she was, all alone and right behind her a real gang of bikers loomed, huge and black, astride roaring monster motorcycles. One by one, the sinister shapes began to pass Verna’s window. She dared not look at them, but couldn’t help herself, her eyes seemed riveted to each black jacketed devil that went past. They seemed so dose to her, she had never been this close to any of them before, and they were easily as horrible as she had ever imagined them to be. The bikers were not reticent about looking at Verna, their hairy helmeted faces leered right through the window at her. They began to hoot to each other, roaring over the motorcycle noise, and gesturing toward Verna with their black gloves pointing. Suddenly, she noticed that the cycles in front of her were slowing down, while the ones passing her were crowding her off the road from the side. “Oh God!" she moaned, her mind reeling with terrible images. Verna searched desperately in her mirrors for some sign of help, but there was no reassuring headlights to be seen in either direction, and besides, who would stop to help someone if they were being tortured by savage bikers. Vema had no choice but to slow down and pull off the road, just as they wanted her to do. Parking their bikes all around the quietly idling car, the leather hulks dismounted and stood gaping in through the windows at Vema. The poor woman nearly panicked at the sight of the chains hanging from their shoulders. Then the leader, the dying sun reflecting from his chromed Nazi helmet, bent over and looked at Vema through her car door window. Unable to move from the window because of her seat belt, she felt frozen with fear. "Open the window," he growled at the thin glass, using his massive gloved fist for punctuation. Something inside Vema seemed to die as she thought of that fist easily punching through the glass. Her arm, almost by itself, halt ingly rolled the window down, leaving her without protection completely. Suddenly the car filled with his stench as he leaned in through the open window. Verna, face to face with the greasy scarred face of a savage, recoiled in terror only to find that the seat belt held her firmly in place. Frantically she fought with the belt, but her panic couldn’t undo the simple mechanism, she was paralyzed inside safety fetters and could not move. When he laughed in her face, Verna col lapsed, wilting from the boozey reek of his breath, the seat beneath her growing warm as she lost control of her blad der. He snorted again with amusement and rasped loudly, “just wanted to see if you had any matches.” Verna’s face registered noncomprehension and her body limply sagged in her harness. The biker reached in a black glove and picked up a dusty book of matches off of the dashboard. “Thanks,” he growled. Then, with a shout to his fellows he was gone. He waved the matches to them and they responded with an obscene cheer. Laughing loudly over their dirty shoulders at Verna, they mounted their hellish machines and thun dered off down the road. The engine in Verna’s car idled softly, a cool wind blew in through the open window and riffled the few strands of hair that lay on her pallid forehead. Her eyes were fixed on the diminishing red tail-lights as they disappeared in the darkness, while 1000 Living Violins crooned smoothly from the tapedeck. By Dale Brabb d.l. shape For some reason, the term “gourmet cooking” has always brought to mind (at least to my mind) glorious images of Sauce Bernaise, Duck a I’Orange, and Salade Nicoise. Accompany ing these delectable images are some not-so-glorious images of sinks full of dirty dishes and drawers full of register receipts for expensive gourmet ingredients. It took me quite a while to figure out that it’s possible to separate the gourmet flavor from all the hassles commonly thought necessary to produce it. In short, it is entirely possible to produce a “gourmet” meal in your very own kitchen without using one ounce of heavy cream or dirtying one wire wisk. It is also possible to be a vegetarian gourmet. The veg etarian way of life is not only healthy, it is a much less expen sive way to get through your weekly shopping. I speak of gourmet cooking; the recipes offered here are gourmet re cipes reduced to their most humble origins — the peasant kitchens of Europe and Africa where ease of preparation and economy were prime factors in determining what foods were to be served. In my kitchen these factors are still important, along with my reckoning of how many dishes will have to be washed after the meal! One of the most famous culinary offerings of France is a delectable vegetable stew more exotically known as Ratatoille (Rah-tah-tooyah). Eaten hot and sprinkled with grated cheese it is delicious; in France it is also served at room temperature as an appetizer. Ratatoille 1/3 c. olive or other oil 2 cloves minced garlic 2 sliced onions V2 c. water 2 zucchini, sliced thickly 1 small (1 lb.) cubed eggplant 2 peppers, chunked 1 can tomatoes 2 tsp. salt 1A tsp. pepper 1 tsp. oregano grated cheese Heat oil and cook garlic, onion, and water till vegies are tender and water has boiled off. Lightly shake zucchini and eggplant in bag of flour and add to the onions along with the peppers. Cover and cook over low heat 45 minutes to an hour. Add tomatoes and simmer uncovered till fairly thick. Add spices and serve with grated cheese. From Africa comes this unique and truly delicious version of the same theme, another one pot vegetarian meal with an unusual flavor supplied by the herb turmeric, which also gives this dish a vibrant golden color. Ethiopian Vegetable Stew Put 3 potatoes, peeled and cut into W strips into a bowl of cold water. Break up about 2 cups worth of green beans into 1” pieces. Saute 2 smallish minced onions in Vi c. olive or other oil till golden. Add beans and 1V2 tsp. turmeric and saute 10 minutes. Add 2 c. chopped peeled tomatoes and drained potatoes and add to pan with V3 c. water and 2 minced garlic cloves. Simmer covered 15-20 minutes, till potatoes are ten der. If you prefer it thicker, simmer uncovered for a few more minutes to reduce the cooking liquid. This last offering is a thick bean-and-vegie soup from Portugal, deliciously warming on dark rainy days. Make a lot; it freezes well. Portuguese Red Bean Soup 1 lb. red beans 1 bay leaf 8 c. water 1 peeled, sliced onion 1 Tbsp. cooking oil 1 tsp. marjoram 1 sliced garlic clove Vi c. macaroni 1 scrubbed, diced potato 2 tsp. salt 1 tsp. paprika 1 (1 lb.) can stewed tomatoes 2 c. chopped cabbage, kale, or cdlards juice of Vi lemon 2 c. milk (optional) Bring beans, bay leaf, and water to boiling. Turn off heat and let sit for one hour. Bring again to boiling, reduce heat, and simmer at the lowest heat possible for 2Vi hours. Stir-fry onion, marjoram, and garlic in oil. When beans are pin-prick tender, add beans and all other ingredients except lemon joice and milk. Simmer 20-25 minutes more. Just before serving, add lemon juice, salt, and pepper. If desired add milk to cool soup ^^an^mprov^Hr^lavor^erve^^lO^ Page 5 Section
