Read Keith

Recently I pulled an old book of my shelf. The book was so old the gold foil lettering had worn off and I couldn’t tell what it was without opening it up. It was a tiny hard cover, only 4”x5” with scrolling gold leaf on the spine and the author’s signature in relief on the cover. A tattered red ribbon marker fell limply from between the first few pages which hung to the rest of the book by only the thinnest of fibers. There is no publication date but Google tells me Collin’s Clear-Type Press most likely issued this book sometime between 1915 and 1927. Then, it must have been a deep vibrant red. Now it is worn, faded and water stained. As I held it in my hand I saw it was a copy of “The Three Musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas. It’s a story I’ve read before, but not one I’m particularly attached to and considering the poor condition of this copy I wondered why I would bother to buy it. But as I thumbed through it the reason jumped out at me off the page. It wasn’t anything Monsieur Dumas or his translator had written, or even the beautiful illustrations by F.C. Tilney scattered throughout. On the inside of the title page is three short of lines of script written in pencil. Most likely these lines are a quotation from a play or famous poet. I’ve never tried to find out. I prefer to think that they were written by the person who purchased the book, and meant as a comfort to someone they loved. (I’m a romantic, sue me.) Here are the lines as they appear in the book:

When twilight draws the

Curtains and pins them with

A star, I will remember you

Dear.

J.

I keep this book because there is a story behind it. And I don’t mean Porthos, Athos, Aramis and D’Artagnan and “One for all, and all for one.” I mean the story of J. and whomever he or she is remembering. I’ll never know anything about those two people but nonetheless, every time I pull the book off my shelf, I’ll remember them both.

When I was in college I was the owner of the largest TV in my entire apartment complex. (That's not to say that I had a large TV. But when you live in campus housing, most of your neighbors tend to be on a budget, thus keeping the average television size pretty low.) Several nights a week, various friends, acquaintance and the occasional random passerby, would drop in to make use of the big screen, abundant seating (we were one of the few apartments to have two couches) and digital cable. (I sprang for the extra $10 a month service.) TV became a regular part of my routine. I even started planning my study sessions around new episodes of Battlestar Galactica and Grey's Anatomy. (A favorite of the girls downstairs.) When I moved home, I brought my TV habits with me. It's much more difficult to watch with a group in suburbia were everything seems to be a 20 minute drive away, but I managed to find one group to watch Heroes with and another for The Office. Plus there was always my sister who shares my taste in TV.

But what to do about this writer's strike? I need my TV! And I needed on it's regularly schedule time. The answer? The glorious invention known as Digital Video Disc. Between myself, my sister and a couple of friends, I have access to what must be dozens of full seasons TV. But I couldn't just start watching shows at random. I needed that security of prime time lineup. So I made my own. One episode of each show, on the same night each week. If you see any thing you like, feel free to drop by.

Sunday

• Malcolm in the Middle
  
• The Simpsons
  
• The X-Files
  
• Playmakers~
  
• Masterpiece Classics*
  

Monday

• Firefly
  
• Space: Above and Beyond
  
• Battlestar Galactica
  
• Terminator: The Sara Connor Chronicles*
  

Tuesday

• Scrubs
  
• The Office
  
• Keen Eddie
  
• Chuck
  

Wednesday

• Dark Angel
  
• Alias
  
• Veronica Mars
  

Thursday

• 30 Rock
  
• What I Like About You
  
• Gilmore Girls
  
• Heroes
  

Friday

• Friday Night Lights+
  
• Dead Like Me
  
• Arrested Development
  
• How I Met Your Mother
  

Saturday

• Miniseries or Movie
  

*new episodes
+new and dvd episodes
~subject to change without notice

I read somewhere close to 300 film reviews in any given year. Sometimes I’ll read a review because I’m interested in the film. Other times, I respect the particular critic’s viewpoint or enjoy his or her writing. In all the reviews I’ve read, a subject which comes up very rarely and then only in passing, is the actual movie going experience itself.

Oh don’t get me wrong, critics love to talk about the theater as cathedral to the religion of film. They talk about the extra emotional weight a capacity crowd adds to the images on screen. And they talk about viewer reaction to particularly funny/tense/scary/emotional moments in the movie. But they never talk about waiting in line. Then paying $10 for a ticket. Then waiting in line. Then paying $15 dollars for soda and popcorn. Then waiting in line. Then filing cattle-car style into the theater only to find that all the best seats have been taken and you have to sit between Comic Book Store Guy from The Simpsons and a woman trying to nurse her crying baby. (Oh and the chair is sticky from the 5 year old who managed to spill his entire soda onto the seat in the previous showing.)

They don’t talk about any of that, because they don’t have to do any of that. No, film critics get to go to press screenings. I know because I’ve seen them. I’m on the list. No, not “THE LIST”, or even “The List.” I’m on “the list.” Every once in a great while, when the stars align (in this case the stars being a press screening for a film produced by Universal Studios, that’s in Seattle, and isn’t already full) I get an email with information on how to get two passes into the screening.

This is a very rare occurrence. In fact, it has only happened three times in six years. The first time was for a movie called The Bourne Identity. Having read and loved the Robert Ludlum novel on which the film was based, I was very excited to see it. I walked into the theater, flashed by pass at the skinny guy in the box office and was pointed toward a theater. No lines, no cash, no hassles, just walk right in and pick any seat I want. (Oh and instead of sticky dried up soda and candy wrappers on the seat, there’s a gift bag waiting for me.) Then comes the hand delivered (free) popcorn and soda. Then came the movie. And it was awesome! How can critics ever dislike a movie when it’s this much fun to go!

Last night I went to the late showing of the newest Matt Damon action-spy-thriller, The Bourne Ultimatum. The follow up to 2002’s The Bourne Identity and 2004’ The Bourne Supremacy, Ultimatum stars Damon as an amnesiac government assassin hell-bent on exacting revenge (justice?) for his lover’s murder by his former employers. (As if you didn’t know that already.) The first two films were some of the best action movies of the past decade. So good in fact that many, myself included, believe they served as the model for the re-imagining of that most ubiquitous of action heroes James Bond. This third Bourne is better. (And not just because a prediction of mine about Julia Styles’ character Nicky was proved correct.)

In the first two films Jason Bourne must fight three of his fellow assassins who have been sent to kill him. All are members of a group called Treadstone. In Ultimatum, the agents sent after Bourne belong to Treadstone’s successor Blackbriar. Presumably they are products of training methods perfected beyond what was used on Bourne who is, we find, the very first agent. In many ways they are better assassins than Bourne because of it. At one point I turned to my friend in the theater and said of one of the Blackbriar assassins, “Did that guy just outsmart Jason Bourne?!” In fact he had. Bourne then proceeds to kick the crap out of him. The enemy Bourne faces in this film is all powerful. They can tap into any security camera, listen in on any cell phone call, assassinate anyone, anywhere. But it doesn’t really matter. When they come up against Jason Bourne, they’re powerless. Is it because they represent the filmmaker’s ideas of an intelligence community with too much freedom and not enough oversight? Or because Bourne’s cause is just? Or simply because it makes for a really cracking action movie?

I prefere the third explanation. Yes, if you are so inclined you can infuse this film with some politically relevant theme. But for me that makes the film a waste of money. I paid to see a movie and have a good time, not sit through a political science lecture. And as for Bourne’s cause being just, it’s Bourne who commits the most heinous, despicable act in the whole movie. We identify with Jason Bourne because he has changed. He is no longer an assassin, but the fact remains that he killed quite a few people in cold blood and with no explanation necessary. Jason Bourne’s quest has very little to do with him being righteous. Instead, he understands that it is not enough to simply no longer be Jason Bourne. He must ensure that they’re will never be another Bourne… born. (Sorry.) And in that, the character finds at least a small bit of redemption and allows us as an audience to root for him.

But mostly there’s a lot of punching, crashing and shooting. And it’s awesome! Even if I did have to wait in line this time.

I'm supposed to publish something today. I wanted it to be a review of The Bourne Ultimatum. Problem is the movie won't be released until Friday. So I'll see you on Saturday.

When I was young I watched Top Gun every day for two years straight. I can still quote most of the film word for word. From age six to age seventeen all I ever thought about becoming was a fighter pilot. At first it was simply because I wanted to be Iceman. (Most kids want to be Maverick. Not me.) top Gun lead me very quickly to other sources. I cleared out the local library's aviation section. I watched the Discovery Channel religiously, hoping to hear about the Battle of Britain or “MIG alley.” I spent hours playing “A-10 Tank Killer” on out family computer. By the age of twelve, I was an expert in the history and lore surrounding combat aircraft and the men who flew them. I learned very quickly that I wanted to become a fighter pilot for reason other than just simple idol worship. I craved the freedom of the wild blue. I craved the power and performance provided by huge engines stuffed into tiny airframes. I craved the challenge, both physical and mental, of piloting a fast, agile craft right up to the edge of the envelope.

Tom Wolfe called it, “the right stuff.” The pilots he wrote about certainly never called it that. In fact, they never talked about it. But they all knew what it was, they all knew it when they saw it, and they were all completely confident that they had it. Wolfe says, “As to just what this ineffable quality was... well, it obviously involved bravery. But it was not bravery in the simple sense of being willing to risk your life... No the idea here (in the all-enclosing fraternity) seemed to be that a man should have the ability to go up in the hurtling piece of machinery ad put his hide on the line and then have the moxie, the reflexes, the experience, the coolness, to pull it back in the last yawning moment...” That's all very dramatic, but trying to learn from that just what “the right stuff” is and how you can get it, is like trying to learn combat tactics by watching Top Gun 400 times. What I needed to know was what “it” looked like. I needed to know how to get it. For that, I had to go straight to the source, to “the most righteous of all possessors of the right stuff: Chuck Yeager.” Yeager was and still is the yard stick by which all fighter pilots are measured.

Charles Elwood Yeager was born in Lincoln County West Virginia in 1923. As an Army Air Corp. officer, he flew P-51 Mustangs in the European theater of World War II. He became the first man to eject over enemy territory and later return to combat. He is also one of only a handful of American pilots to score five or more kills on a single mission. To make five aerial kills, to “ace” has been the mark of a good fighter pilot since the very early days of air combat in the first World War. Less than 1000 people have ever done it. To become an “ace in a day,” elevates a pilot into even more rarefied air. He finished the war with twelve kills total, a “double ace.” While his combat record made him a legend in military and aviation circles, it was what he would accomplish after the war that would make Chuck Yeager a household name. On October 14, 1947 he did what no man had ever done before. At 45,000 feet above the Mojave Desert, Yeager flew the Bell X-1 test plane to a speed of Mach 1.1 (around 800mph) breaking the sound barrier. The list goes, Wright, Lindberg, Yeager, Armstrong.

Yeager says ever since the film version of “The Right Stuff” came out, the question he's asked most often in if he thinks he has the right stuff. He says, “I know that golden trout have the right stuff, and I've seen a few gals here and there that I'd bet had it in spades, but those words seem meaningless when used to describe a pilot's attributes.” You can imagine my confusion upon finding these words in Yeager's autobiography. If I'm not looking for “the right stuff” then just what is it that I need to have? What is it that I need to know? What is it that I need to do to find my way into the cockpit of a jet fighter?

“'Combat vision,' we call it. You focus out to infinity and back, searching a section of sky each time. To be able to see at such distances is a gift that's hard to explain, and only Andy [Yeager's best friend during the war] and I could do it.” And there it is. I had to have eyes. Good ones! Of all the other qualities a fighter pilot had to have, Yeager believed that it was his eyesight that set him apart from every other “good” pilot. To be able to see the enemy first, be able to see trouble coming before it gets to you, before it's too late to do anything, it's what keeps a pilot flying and makes him one of the best.

When I was in the fourth grade, our entire class was sent down to the nurse's office in groups of three to have our eyes checked. I went first.

“Cover your right eye with your hand.

“Good, now please read line eight for me.”

I tried to read line eight but I couldn't tell the F's from the P's, the Q's from the O's. This was bad.

“O.K. Keith, how about we try line four.”

I tried line four. I had to guess on most of them, but I was pretty sure I got them all right. I had to get them right.

Just write down on you little nurse's clipboard that I have good eye! Write it down. “Keith has great eyes! His eyes are so good he should be a fighter pilot!”

“O.K. Keith can you tell me what the top letter is?”

The top letter?! What is she talking about? Everyone knows only old people have to read the top letter. This is really bad.

“It's and 'E',” I say, utterly confused.

How is this possible? I have to have perfect eye sight.

She sends me back to class with a note for my parents. When it was all over, I had three visits to the optometrist and a set of this, gold framed lenses. Today I wear a contact lens with a diopter power of -5.00. That translates to rough y 20/400 vision without the lenses. It was a major set back for me. But I would continue to purse my goal. There was hope for me yet, as my eyesight in one-hundred percent correctable. With my contacts in, I have 20/15 vision in both eyes. I would need a medical waiver in order to fly, but my need for speed had not faltered. I would find a way.

There is a killer instinct which all good fighter pilots have. It's a blood lust. A willingness to do anything to win, to bring the other guy down. Yeager's closest friend during and after the war was Andy “Bud” Anderson, a “triple ace” with 17 kills. “On the ground, [Andy] was the nicest person you'd ever know, but in the sky, those damned Germans must've thought they were up against Frankenstein or the Wolfman; Andy would hammer them into the ground, dive with them into the damned grave, if necessary, to destroy them.”

My father refused to let me play football until I was in the seventh grade. It was most likely just a financial concern as youth football was very expensive while junior high football was covered by his tax dollars. When junior high eventually rolled around I joined the team, and would finally get to prove I had that component of “the right stuff.” Football is the closest you can get to war in a civilized society, without actually going to war. The game of Football is an avenue for aggression. In a developed society which frowns on violence, men have found it necessary to channel their fundamental need for combat into the arena of organized sport. And in the game of football, there is no position which fits Yeager's description; a violent, relentless unopposable force of a fighter pilot better than middle linebacker. So that's what I'd be. And I was right. I was good at it. While I didn't have the pure athletic talent of some of my teammates, that willingness to go right into the “dive with them into the damned grave,” that I had. I was aggressive and ruthless and despite my lack of speed, still managed to find the ball carrier. I even started using the “Combat vision,” that Yeager talked about. I called it “tunnel vision.” It was like a spot light shooting out through my eyes. I could focus it down to one tiny, intense beam to notice the smallest change in an offensive lineman's balance. Or I would broaden it out to cover the whole field and see a splint end motioning down to crack block the defensive end. When the ball was snapped, I didn't hesitate. I flew to a spot on the field where I knew the ball would be. Often, I got there before the offensive player did. Just as a pilot has to know where every plane is in a dogfight, what's called “situational awareness,” I knew where all 21 other players on the field were, and more importantly where they were going to be.