Being the continuation of InstaPunk and InstaPunk Rules
A Mission from Gahd
Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps
If you were to wake me at 3 am and ask, Who’s the star of the Blues Brothers
movie?, I’d say “It’s the Bluesmobile.” It’s 3 am in the morning now.
Years ago I made up a list of the best American movies about America and ran it as a series on the original Instapunk website. I subsequently published it in 2018 as a Kindle book under an assumed name, because I didn’t want people to pass it up on the basis of their prejudices against me and my abrasive approach to things. It’s still available at Amazon.
Illustrated and with a provocative concluding essay about Stephen Spielberg.
It’s a good book and I recommend it. At about a hundred pages covering 35+ great movies for five bucks, it’s a cost-effective antidote for the dreck that’s being made and shown on the streaming services these days. One problem that’s been bothering me the past few days, though, is that it’s missing one very important milestone in American cinema. One that’s grown steadily in relevance as we have stumbled further down the ladder of culture in terms of shared values and flat-out fun. I’m referring, of course, to The Blues Brothers, the original one and only mini-masterpiece comprising much of what used to be great about us as a people back in 1980. Here’s a trailer to remind those who saw it long ago and any who somehow happened to miss it.
More than 300 cars destroyed in the making of it.
Here’s the descriptive blurb from IMDb.com:
What’s so great about it? Written by Dan Aykroyd and John Landis, directed by Landis, it has an all-star cast unmatched by any other film in its broad representation of the American population, including even some of the good Canadians and one waif-like Brit. Take a gander: John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, James Brown, Cab Calloway, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Carrie Fisher, John Candy, Henry Gibson, Twiggy, John Lee Hooker, Paul Reubens, Kathleen Freeman, Steve Lawrence, Frank Oz, Charles Napier, John Landis, and a whole bunch of other musicians and American music. Nobody’s there to fill a diversity quota or to make a social or political point, even though Jake and Elwood are Catholic (lapsed?) orphans, and their friends in the music business are mostly black and far from rich. There’s a Nazi in the plot too, but remembering this was part of why I realized BB was presently relevant in a way you have to see to understand. The Nazis, played by Henry Gibson and uniformed walk-ons, are purely comic figures, reduced as they should be to the flat absurdity of their obsolete symbolism and insane reason for being. They are not killed by the Blues Brothers they so want to kill but by their own mad stupidity. Their eventual death is a joke, and a funny, relevant one at that in light of the angry ones who are so obsessed by Hitler right now as an epithet for their enemies while wholeheartedly embracing his darkest legacy.
Cop acceleration, cop brakes, and cop shock absorbers. Mopar!
The movie is simply about being funny and musically entertaining(!), mildly satirical but not disrespectful in its use of the Brothers’ “Mission from Gahd” as a completely understandable expression of filial piety acquired despite early privation. The Mission carried no baggage of controversy in 1980 and shouldn’t now. In fact, it’s still charming because in the 1980 context it needs no sententious explanations. It just is, like the Brothers and all their friends, good at heart but more than a little clumsy in terms of accomplishing the goal.
A lot of comedies don’t survive time on the shelf. They come to seem forced, too manufactured, dated out of the movie canon. But here everyone seems to be having a good time, and we can still have a good time with them. Notably, Aykroyd and Landis in their filmed recollections about the making of it admit that everyone got so caught up in the project that they sort of lost their heads in the production of the great chase scene that forms the movie’s climax. The budge ballooned as they shut down Chicago streets and filled them with wrecked old cop cars bought at auction. In fact, the only really sad moment in the picture is the death scene of the Brothers’ Dodge 440 Bluesmobile, which falls completely apart on the pavement after the chase has been won. On the tiop floor, we finally meet the government Jake and Elwood have labored so hard to reach. Not there to help unless and until citizens demand it. Then the police arrest our good guys and we can all go to prison for our Christian virtue. Or something like that. (Nah. It’s just a great punchline to have the last musical number behind bars…)
The best way to detect the profound change in cultural context the nation has endured from then to now is to think of all the things that would be done differently now if they could done at all and if they wouldn’t automatically be twisted into some kind of Social Justice ‘point’ with a capital P. You can find your own examples if you watch, which can do at Netflix (for free I think) or at Amazon Prime for less than $4. I’ll give you the one scene that seems funniest in this respect because the mind boggles at what today’s writers and directors would do with the ‘Rawhide’ scene in terms of pillorying the irredeemable MAGA louts who, by sheer coincidence, are happily played here by their real life counterparts.
Can’t you see the MAGA hats and the obligatory scatological name-dropping?
One thing you’ll take away from this movie for sure is a wistful memory of a time when one-liners were witty, funny, and unforgettable. My own favorite is Jake’s response to the hair-raising audition Elwood gave him of the battered old Dodge’s street performance after his ex-con brother dissed it by throwing the lighter out the window. When they came to a screeching halt after the kind of power play I remembered from my own battered 440 V-8, Jake just stared straight ahead and said, “Get the lighter fixed.”
Maybe The Blues Brothers can still do that little chore for all of us.
Just how long has it been since SNL was funny? 1980 was nearly 50 years ago.
Happy Independence Day No. 250! I’m planning to do my part for the year-long celebration of the still remarkable birth of the United States of America. Just starting to realize that the number of us who remember the last big anniversary in 1976 is getting smaller every day. Why I have some special ideas about focusing on the moment of transition, that is the tick of the clock last night when the 249th year became the 250th. A kind of time capsule that may be buried now but dug up later to see who were way back when you were still as young as you think you are now. My credentials for the job. Quite a few actually, but the most important one today is that I was a working participant in the official Bicentennial celebrations back when I was still young. I wrote a post about it almost 10 years ago, ancient history in today’s 24/7 chronometer dial. In honor of the ones no longer with us from that time, I dug up the old post from the Wayback Machine and put it back together here a...
The last group photo I’m a part of that’s still in my possession. My sister’s wedding in the late1990’s, with me and my mother in attendance, here in Salem. I don’t get out much anymore. Haven’t for a long time. If I didn’t take pictures of myself, nobody would, or could, anymore. I don’t give them the chance. Why in recent years I’ve made a point of doing an official birthday selfie, to keep track of the wear and tear of the years and see if the falling apart process is gaining speed. This year was not a good year for hair. That much I’ll tell you. But here’s the Official 74th Birthday Selfie I took on Friday. Not as young as I used to be. I hadn’t really shown this pic to anyone, but imagine my surprise when I received a gift yesterday by parcel delivery from a young lady I helped raise who will always be close to my heart. She and I hadn’t spoken about the Rolling Stones in years, but somehow she must have divined I’d been thinking of them, because here’s what she ordered sent ...
This is what I call an omnibus post. That is, it will contain many links to what I have published here and elsewhere previously. Not going to apologize for that. I don’t mind asking you to read a variety of approaches to the same gigantic topic. It’s a tooic so big we’ve all become accustomed (or trained ourselves) to deal with it only in pieces. But the pieces are all part of a larger whole that has grave consequences for the cukture as a whole. A great many people aren’t going to like what I have to say here, but it’s time it was said. I won’t be mincing words. If you feel like contending with specific points I am making, you’re well advised to read what’s at the links before you cut yourself the easy break of dismissing this post as irrational or wrongheaded or over-generalized. It isn’t. It just won’t be popular. A word about the word ‘general’ as it used in vernacular expressions like ”in general” or “generally speaking.” We all do generalize, mostly without acknowledging that whe...
If you’ve never seen an Asylum production of their “Saving the World from Imminent Destruction” series, you’re excused from this post. The rest of us already know the basics. A once prominent, now disgraced scientist (often Sam Baldwin, but not always) is minding his own business making a living income and trying to mend his struggling family life when he notices that something is seriously amiss in the cosmos. Gravity isn’t working quite right. Or all the birds seem to be migrating at the same time. Or some local pond suddenly ejaculates a pillar of lava. You know. The warning knell of an extinction-level catastrophe. Meanwhile, where are the kids? They were supposed to be home by now. He calls his ex-wife. She doesn’t know where they are. He calls an old colleague at the agency in DC where nobody else will take his calls anymore. In a whisper, the colleague tells him the experts in charge haven’t noticed anything to worry about cosmologically speaking. This far in, we already know wh...
The Valley of the Jerseyikes When you’ve decided to your own satisfaction that life doesn’t end with physical death, what have you got to worry about? That probably depends on where you come down on the age-old questions about ghosts. Do they exist? Are they a possible fate of troubled souls after they’ve shuffled off this mortal coil or been yanked out of it too suddenly? What if you expire peacefully and find yourself waking up in the attic of your own house, somehow tethered to it with no watch you can trust to keep track of time? I know I’ve stopped wearing a watch at all, like almost all of you out there. Are we taking some kind of risk that we’ll miss the departure signal for the trip to the other side? One side effect of getting old and not liking most of what’s on teevee is that you wind up watching too many paranormal shows, which have the virtue of no politics, no gratuitous sex scenes, and extended stretches of restful watching with almost nothing happening on screen. ...
Invocation of Nemesis by the Summoners Click on Rosie. Thought I’d get this part out of the way right up front. I’m reminded of Oscar Wilde’s famous quip about the upper class British sport of fox hunting: “The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible.” As it happens, I’m working on two different posts at the same time this morning. This one and another one about the sad PR plight by the unfortunate middle child of the three worst First Ladies in American history. . What the posts have in common is that the dominating element of both stories is a function of female psychology and can only be understood in those terms. There’s also the irony that Wilde’s jibe can be applied with some justice to both predator and prey in the two posts. Because I’m going to admit at the outset what most of the MAGA faithful won’t. You are right that Donald Trump is responsible for much of the imminent danger we are facing as a nation. Without his arrival on the political scene 11 years ago, the...
Minimalism has been a periodic ideal of modern and post-modern esthetics. Purely arbitrary, of course, though not without possibilities and even infinities of its own. For example, there are those who regard Haiku as a sort of supreme test of the poet, since poetry is commonly defined as the best words in the best order. This leaves the door open for imagining that there is an absolute minimum definable for capturing profound truth in the fewest of the best words in the least of the best order. In Haiku there must be 17 syllables, some reference to a season (ensuring universality I guess), and a prohibition against rhyme to prevent cheating (another guess). What if this definition of the minimum is wrong? What if there’s some way to reach great truths in less than 17 syllables? In less than a single word even? And, gasp, in less than a single letter on the page? Impossible? Well, why the hell not? I propose that the graphic above is a poem, subject to meaningful exploration, inte...
You see. What they don’t see. The atheist view. The Dawkins view. He is not responsible for explaining how parameciums got here, only how parameciums became the Vatican. Except he doesn’t put it that way. His job is the childishly simple task of explaining how the Law of Entropy (all things fall apart, the only law any scientist accepts) somehow gives us Shakespeare, Blake, and Tilden, the author of the King James Bible. Evolutionists think they’re not responsible for how life came to be. Did you know that? Whole different question to them. Not their job. All that sky out there? Billions of stars. Irrelevant. Galapagos Island. Moths with changing wings. That’s the job of the Blind Watchmaker. Why he is smarter than God and a critic of his work. Well, I’m asking you all to forget the partitioning off of the heavens. And everything else you have to forget to believe there’s no meaning in life. Life. To me, the funniest thing about the evolutionary spiels is how they always argue fo...
…and a weird dose of nostalgia, as for something half remembered. What did you do for your Memorial Day remembrances? We watched the laying of the wreath at the Tomb of the Unknowns and the President’s speech. The audience was large, and the people there looked amazingly normal. Attentive and respectful. The way our parents taught us to be at solemn events. We heard the fireworks begin after dark and put the Thundershirt on our terrier Tommy, who isn’t entirely sure that fireworks aren’t an approaching thunderstorm. All we needed of that timeless ritual, since we’ve both been to many such occasions, including the field a mile away where the Salem event is always held. It was only at bedtime that I tried something new. In my constant search for background sounds that facilitate the hours of sleep I get before the inevitable wee hours summons to the keyboard, I try different things, usually intended to be monotonous and therefore soporific. British crime documentary series are...
Comments