OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY TWO — INTERMISSION

Pulp Fiction goes Irish in this mystifyingly neglected dark comic gem.

Set in Dublin, Intermission follows nearly a dozen characters whose lives intersect in funny, violent and, ultimately, touching fashion. Just when you think writer Mark O'Rowe and director John Crowley couldn't possibly fit another twist, reversal or character into the story, they do. Time and again. And always with bracing wit and relentless creativity.

Populated by what seems like half of Ireland's SAG members, this movie is one hell of a lot of fun. And it has a heart that does not promote tooth decay.

It is a hoot, a treat and a gas to watch the cavalcade of stars, near-stars and hey-I-know-that-guy-what-the-hell-is-his-name-agains having an absolute ball with dialogue that crackles with authenticity and situations that turn on a euro.

You get:

The excellent Cillian Murphy before his Batman gig.

Colin Farrell playing an Irishman (which is always good news, playing an American ... not so much) and he is spectacularly funny.

The protean Brian F. O'Byrne, who created — among other brilliant stage performances— the role of Father Flynn in the play Doubt. Philip Seymour Hoffman got the movie and an Oscar nod. O'Byrne got a "special thanks" and, I'm guessing, an attaboy.

Look, no one loves P.S. Hoffman more than I do but can't we once get to see the goddamn actor who originated the role do the movie?

(I hear a distant "Amen" from Kathleen Chalfant, who must have a special voodoo doll of Emma Thompson somewhere. See Wit and Angels in America.)

Kelly MacDonald (Scottish, but who cares) in all her post-Trainspotting and pre—No Country For Old Men charm and beauty. I was smitten.

(The wife digs James McEvoy, also Scottish, so I think the free spin rule is a wash next time we hit Glasgow.)

The slyly hilarious Shirley Henderson — Moaning Myrtle to all you parents and Potter nerds.

And finally — the man, the myth, the people's thespian — the actor who has been in every movie and on every television show shot over the past 25 years and has yet to hit a false note — Colm Meaney.

Intermission is a great, raucous Irish time. And now, it'll never live up to the hype. Sorry.

Rent it anyway.

Here's the trailer:

OFF THE BEATEN PATH — 12 DAYS OF IRISH 2009 — DAY ONE — THE TOSSERS

Between now and March 17th, people of all stripes, ages and degrees of inebriation will tap their inner Paddy. They will break out Danny Boy, blinking buttons, big green Seussian hats and dye the rivers green. They will Lucky Charms us till our ears bleed, dance spastic jigs, and puke in the street, the bathroom and, yes, back into their beer.

And we empower them to get their Irish up, on and over in whatever fashion they choose.

However, for the 2nd annual "Off The Beaten Path - Twelve Days of Irish", (click here for last year's offerings) we will go native, immigrant and transatlantic to bring you some cultural and historical diamonds in the peat.

So today — let's rock it Chicago-style:

The Tossers, from the South Side of Chi-town, have been at it for over fifteen years but I have only hipped to them within the last year or so. And that was through pure dumb luck — somehow, I rarely seem to experience pure intelligent luck.

The Tossers followed the path carved out by The Pogues and currently trod most successfully by Flogging Molly and the Dropkick Murphys. The music landscape is fairly littered with bands hopping the Irish/Celtic train and much of that fare fades quickly from memory. Indeed at first glance (and second and third glance as well) the Tossers seem like they might be trying to will Shane MacGowan to apparate before them and christen them with the brown.

But here's the thing — the Tossers have the songs — and the killer players — and the frontman — to hold their own and more. Which they have for a decade and a half. And, ya know, what the hell — at least they're not ripping off Styx. And they truly re-invent the traditional Irish tunes they choose, making them exhilarating, haunting and current.

The Tossers have six albums out. Their latest is On A Fine Spring Evening and it is worth your time, money and effort. Drink and listen. If you're not singing, dancing or shitfaced by the time Brendan Behan appears — your name is probably Cromwell.

Oh yeah ... Lead singer Tony Duggins has a solo record out titled Undone.

His pitch — "Buy the record. I need beer money."

Evidently, the Tossers' live shows are the stuff of legend. As yet, though, the pricks haven't quite made it to Columbus. Hey, quick, somebody get me the Dublin Irish Festival on the phone — I think I know how to shock it back to life.

Dig this:

And The Award Goes To ...

Happy Belated New Year! I have a litany of reasons as to why I haven't written in so long and I was all ready to share them with my readers (both of you) — until I realized that no one really gives a good goddamn. So ...

With the nutty Golden Globes over and done with (nutty, yes, but I am all over the Mickey Rourke reclamation project) and the Emmys just around the predictable corner, it seems an ideal time to recognize two spectacular television performances that have no shot at winning any awards ... especially since one of them can be found on a show that has just been canceled.


Robert Knepper as Theodore Bagwell (T-Bag) — Prison Break













How do you play a villain and keep the audience interested in you?

Furthermore, how do you portray a villain and get the audience — against all their better judgment — to care?

Whatever you think the answer is, Robert Knepper is doing it — and doing it as well as anyone has in recent memory.

Serialized primetime dramas like Prison Break provide actors with a huge challenge: create a fully realized character and find ways to reveal that character in new ways week after week. If the actor and the writers are up to the challenge, the results can be thrilling.

Robert Knepper's performance has been nothing short of thrilling.

Prison Break gets head-slappingly silly at times — and the acting is wildly uneven — but most of it is rooted in an emotional reality and the most entertaining and consistently surprising presence is Knepper's Theodore Bagwell.

For the first three seasons, Bagwell was an unrepentant scuzzball — a white supremacist sexual deviant who delighted in his deprivation and the lawlessness of the prison environment. But even then, we caught glimpses of his desire to be something other than what he was — as we learned why he was the way he was.

This past season, Knepper was given a chance to be that other person — when T-Bag assumed the identity of a successful salesman. Knepper made the battle between T-Bag's survival instincts and his desire to change utterly riveting.

In one of the great scenes in recent television drama — T-Bag chooses to spare the family of Gretchen Morgan (played by our old friend Jodi Lyn O'Keefe). Knepper breaks your heart. He's brilliant.

And none of the kooky awards voters noticed.

If you want to have the T-Bag experience broadcast into your home (not THAT T-bag experience, the actor one!) you better do it quick. Fox just announced that they are pulling the plug on Prison Break — understandably so.

Prison Break is not a thing of greatness. Knepper's performance is.

I dig House. Dexter is interesting. Gabriel Byrne is Irish, so he's cool. But Robert Knepper gave the performance of the year. And somebody needed to say it.



James Wolk as Brad Cohen — Front of The Class













Really? Hallmark Hall of Fame!?

Really!?!?

You bet your ass.

"Front of The Class" aired on December 7th and I was none too pleased that we were going to watch it. In fact, I had the Sunday NY Times spread out in front of me, ready to harrumph and guffaw my way through another weepfest.

Lisa had been intrigued by the commercial — the true story of Brad Cohen, a guy with Tourette Syndrome who beats the odds to achieve his dream to be a teacher.

Oy.

Hallmark just ain't cool.

I could actually feel the tooth decay begin before the thing started. But then a crazy thing happened — in the graveyard known as TV-movies, good acting and sensitive writing appeared. First there were scenes depicting the struggles of Brad as a youngster. Twelve-year-old Dominic Scott Kay was impeccable as the young Cohen.

A nearly unrecognizable Patricia Heaton and the perennially-underrated Treat Williams are Cohen's parents who try to cope with his behavior.

But it is James Wolk who puts the real emotional charge in Front of The Class.

Seriously, what's better than watching someone you've never seen or heard of give a thrilling performance? As the adult Cohen, Wolk seamlessly blends a startlingly truthful physical portrait of Tourette Syndrome, a gung-ho can-do outlook and a deep well of raging frustration. Plus he falls in love in a way that doesn't make you want to throw a brick through the screen.

As these things go, its fairly miraculous.

Okay, I cried.

There I said it. So shoot me.

The thing is:

No one — not the cavalcade of film stars in HBO's mega-movies and mini-series, Showtime's prestige pieces or the rest of the year's television movie "events" — gave a better performance than this kid. And the nominations will go to the usual suspects and life will go on but sometimes ...

... that ain't cool.

MARIE KAMARA MONK WAS AN ACTOR

So many people claim to be that which they are not — as if the mere act of saying it makes it so.

When Marie Kamara Monk called herself an actor — it was the truth.

She had the talent, she had the passion and she did the work. Those of us fortunate enough to have crossed her path are better for it.

In the theater, an old adage is that we can learn all we need to know about someone by his or her work on the stage. In the acting, the person will be revealed.

Time and again, Marie revealed herself to be compassionate, committed, insightful, fiercely intelligent and very funny.

And courageous.

I had no idea that Marie had lupus, a much-misunderstood disease that my wife Lisa lives with as well. Knowing the great challenges lupus can present, it only deepens my respect for Marie's commitment to acting and my admiration for her artistry.

I would urge you to take this opportunity to learn a little about lupus. Its quite possible someone you know has it.

I would also urge you — as I urge myself — to embrace Marie's example.

To run out of excuses.

I knew Marie only in the classroom and saw her on the stage.

Those who knew her better than I have eloquently and beautifully remembered her.

I will only add this:

Marie Kamara Monk was an actor.


She will be greatly missed.

Click here to see Marie's tribute in the Columbus Dispatch.

A TWO-FER ... BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT

I accept the charge of sour grapes right from the get-go. It is the birthright of all Philadelphia sports fans — unmitigated grousing and finger-pointing.

Now that we have that out of the way ...

The guy pictured above just turned in what may be the worst performance by a home-plate umpire in a World Series Game. And since he was perpetrating this travesty against my beloved Philadelphia Phillies, I wanted to stick my fingers deep into his eyes with each mind-blowing mistake he made.

His name is Kerwin Danley and I do not like him.

I would appreciate it greatly if you would make an effort to dislike him as well.

Boy, did he suck in Game Two of the World Series tonight — blown calls, weird indecision and a strike zone that was more unpredictable than Tom Sizemore with an eightball, a strap-on and a blowtorch.

But, in truth, we can't lay all the blame for tonight's Phillies loss at Kerwin Danley's feet.

The poor Fightin' Phils are taking an historic collar with guys on base. It is as if we are watching the same inning over and over. A couple of guys get on base, then anemia sets in and Phillies are waving at the ball like Ms. Montgomery County.

Now before you say,

"Hold on there, armchair. You have no idea how hard it is to hit a major league fastball or curveball. No idea at all!!"

I'd like to illustrate just how knowledgeable I am about trying to do the near-impossible — which is to hit good pitching.

In my freshman year of high school — I went out for the baseball team at Archbishop Carroll. I had occasion to secure one at-bat during a practice game against Penn Charter, a school renowned for producing Tony Resch and soon to be exalted for producing Thomas Noonan.

This at-bat pitted the scrawny, bespectacled and jittery me against the strapping local legend-in-the-making known as Mark Gubicza.

With a helmet too loose and a bat too heavy, I dug in against the man-child.

The first pitch, I believe, I never even saw. Fastball.

Strike One.

The second pitch I'm certain I never saw. Fasterball.

Strike Two.

With an ill-advised brief burst of courage, I inched closer to protect the plate.

The third pitch headed straight for my face. I buckled, cringed and otherwise Cirque de Soleiled. The ball broke across the heart of the plate as I ended the pose looking like a flamingo having a seizure. Curveball.

Strike Three.

The at-bat lasted roughly forty seconds.

The next day I went out for the golf team.

So I have some kernel of insight into how tough hitting is but ...

COULD THE FUCKING PHILLIES GET ONE CLUTCH HIT!?! ONE!?! ITS THEIR CHOSEN PROFESSION AFTER ALL!!

Okay.

Number Two:

Seriously, "I Am Joe the Plumber?"

Really?

Is that what people are buying now? Is that really the deciding factor for the incomprehensibly still undecided voters?

"I Am Joe the Plumber."

Are you?

You're a lying sack of shit who has never been a plumber and goes deadbeat on taxes and compares Barack Obama to Sammy Davis, Jr.?

Awesome.

It was recently suggested to me that it is easy to misinterpret the likes of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly.

So in my car today, I flipped to Rush Limbaugh's show. I took it as a challenge. I'll listen — in context — and see if I can keep from screaming "Asshole. Liar. Most dangerous man in America!"

I couldn't.

He talked about elitists and couched it in a soundbite from an interview Brian Williams did with John McCain and Sarah Palin.

Palin's part of the sound bite was another variation on her patented "My name is Elmer J. Fudd. I own a mansion and a yacht."

McCain expounded on where elitists could be found.

Washington D.C. and New York — in case you were curious.

McCain said elitists were anyone who thinks they know better than you do and want to control you.

Limbaugh then blustered that McCain was right — that it was all about condescension.

And that was enough.

These aren't serious people. They're name-calling, misleading and playing games while the country is in genuine turmoil. And, worse yet, if they are attempting profundity and clarity — then they are lacking in even the most basic self-awareness or insight.

Condescension runs through every vein of John McCain. Of the four people in this race, he has been — by far — the most privileged.

Sarah Palin's audacious disregard for us is clear — she will not deign to actually answer questions or speak in any way, shape or form that leads you to believe what she's saying. Either she thinks we're all too stupid to know the difference — or she is.

And ultimately — if the elusive no-name elitists you hear about every day really are those who think they know better than you do and want to control you — look no further than your neighbor's church. Any rival congregation will do.

There are no terrorists, communists, socialists or elitists running for president.

We desperately need serious, competent and steady people to lead us.

Put your country first and let serious people run it.

McCain Comes Full Circle — It's Over

That's my prediction. My wildly presumptuous, hair-trigger prediction. And deep down, you know I'm right.

There is — barring any calamitous screw-up by Barack Obama — no way John McCain can rally to win the election.

Mint it. Print it. Sprint it (what!?).

He can't do it. He won't do it.

And it's not because he lost the debate Tuesday night — which he did. It's not because he lacks intelligence — which he doesn't. It's not even because his attempts at humor are tarnishing the legacy of Celtic wit and timing — which they are.

(McCain's roots go back to Antrim in Northern Ireland — and Scotland before that — just like the McClatchy roots — and the McClatchy clan is, by all accounts, an absolute laugh riot! We kill! We are flat-out hilarious — as any self-respecting, mildly lubricated Irish-Scots family must be. Come on, Senator McCain — if you're going to engage in witticisms and sly asides, you have a sacred Celtic obligation to, ya know, be funny.)

But McCain is done because he is physically, emotionally and psychologically unfit to lead.

Now Kevin ... don't you go Swift-boating this war hero, you socialist, tree-hugging son of a bitch.

I wouldn't dream of Swift-boating John McCain. Because John McCain has been Swift-boated already and he understands the impotent rage and bottomless disgust that being Swift-boated produces.

"They know no depths, do they? They know no depths."

That's what John McCain said about Karl Rove and George Bush's smear campaign against him in South Carolina's 2000 presidential primary.

(Of course, it wasn't called Swift-boating back then. It would be four more years before the Son of Perdition cooked that gem up. In 2000 it was just called Rove being Rove.)

And McCain was right. He was dead-on.

Yet now — with his presidential prospects dimming — he has come full circle and sold his soul at the altar of Mr. Pure Walking Evil himself:


















McCain's transparent and wildly irresponsible VP pick was bad enough. But then — under the watchful eye of campaign strategist and Rove clone Steve Schmidt — McCain went off the reservation. He sent his circus act of a running mate Sarah Palin on an unholy mission to brand Barack Obama a terrorist.

Gov. Palin — folksy as all-get-out and that much creepier for it — said Obama was "pallin' around with terrorists." We all know she was referring to William Ayres, the former leader of the Weathermen, a radical anti-war group from the 60s and early 70s.

His militant opposition to the Vietnam War and his subsequent actions occurred when he was in his 20s and Obama was 8.

Somehow — in repeating this rap over and over — Governor Palin neglects to mention that Ayres, now 63, is a leader in education reform and a Distinguished Professor at the College of Education at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

With the "terrorist" number and her standard misrepresentation about Obama's remarks on Afghanistan, she is whipping crowds into a dangerous, misguided frenzy. Shouts of "treason!" and "terrorist!" accompany mention of Obama at McCain/Palin rallies.

It doesn't seem to occur to her that she is playing a perilous game that can lead to tragedy.

Which is not surprising — she's a dim bulb with a bizarre moral compass.

Thank God she'll never be vice-president.

What is genuinely surprising — and sounds the death knell for McCain's campaign — is this:

With a massive financial crisis that he stood by and watched develop (you can't vote with George Bush 92% of the time and call yourself Maverick — or Goose or Iceman for that matter ...)

With a $10-billion-a-month wrong-headed war that he consistently championed ...

With a health-care situation that just may be the thing that brings violent protests back to the streets ...

With all that and much more ...

With the country hungering for real leadership ...

McCain went and Swift-boated Obama.

He Karl-Roved the poor bastard.

John McCain has become what he despises.

I didn't think he would.

He knows no depths, does he?

Thank God he's lost the election.

John McCain Hates Me ... and You ... and Especially You

If you pay attention long enough, people eventually reveal their true selves. Senator John McCain did just that — beyond any shadow of a doubt — yesterday.





McCain derisively asks Sarah Palin if her exchange outside Tony Luke's in Philadelphia with Temple Phd candidate Michael Rovito happened at a "pizza place." As if that were utterly beneath her ... and himself.

No matter how hard McCain tries to tell us that he is a man of the people, that he is a maverick, that he is different ... he just isn't. He is a privileged, cynical, mean-spirited rich guy who clearly has no respect for:

a) the intelligence of those who may frequent or work at a beloved family-owned institution that offers great food at affordable prices and goes out of its way to support the troops McCain pays lip service to at every opportunity.

b) Michael Rovito — a tax-paying serious-minded voter who would like to know what the hell is going on in Sarah Palin's head.

(Oh yeah — Rovito is involved in researching ethnic studies, minority health disparities, immigration, and implementing Geographic Information Systems to the field of epidemiology and public health — what a selfish, grandstanding prick he is.)

There was no "gotcha journalism" as McCain alleged. Nor was anything taken out of context. Sarah Palin was asked questions at a close range and in a reasonable tone of voice and she gave her answers.

I feel sorry for Sarah Palin now. She is so completely overwhelmed that you can actually see her aging over the course of an interview. She has quickly become a punchline and there appears to be no way out for her.

She is in for the most humiliating month of her life.

But back to Senator McCain — who evidently is a borderline compulsive gambler and classic backroom casino wheeler-dealer as well as a dick.

I mean — do we really need another condescending, vindictive president who has lost all touch with the day-to-day reality of the people he wants to lead? McCain is an angry old man with no real regard for you and me. He seems to be losing the ability to tell the truth with each passing day. And in the process — he must have gone to the Senate Appropriations committee and secured first dibs on George Bush's smirk.

I used to like John McCain. When you get snippets here and there of him, you can be fooled. He can come across like a tough, honest customer.

But — in the end — who is he?

A man who has ridden the war hero horse a long, long way, who ditched his first wife after she was disfigured in a car accident, who is as slick a dealmaker as any other Washington insider and now arrives on history's doorstep a damaged, arrogant, angry jackass.

Don't we deserve better?

Also — a word about debates. I believe that the candidates should not debate each other. I think the truth will be revealed only if John McCain debates a regular old registered Democrat and Barack Obama debates an everyday registered Republican.

Rather than sparring, pouting and making grand empty pronouncements, they would have to give real answers and talk to someone who lives in the real world.

I volunteer to debate McCain. I think it should take place at Tony Luke's.

Now all I have to do is open a casino and maybe he'll return my call.